“Hear that?”
I do.
It rushes, trickles, gurgles.
I shouldn’t be surprised. We are, after all, on Del Agua Trail, at the north end of the Sandias.
But I live in the desert. Where a wet spot that flows a few weeks a year merits the name “spring.” Where even a rare perennial spring might be just a drip.
The day after a storm dumped half an inch of rain, we’ve found a gusher.
It sounds like a waterfall. It’s not. It’s a stream. It runs for at least half a mile. There, the trail and the stream cease crossing each other and become one. We turn around.
Miles inside granite, this stream nourishes a stand of cottonwoods, reeds, grasses. Birds call. Butterflies flutter.
Exodus 17: Strike the rock, and water will come out of it, so that the people may drink.
Tomorrow morning, Sunday, my church will have no services. It probably won’t have services for weeks, as public health officials urge us to avoid gatherings, keep “social distance,” and slow the spread of the new coronavirus.
I have been a churchgoer since I was a little girl. Nine years ago I left the faith I grew up in, but I didn’t leave church. I walked out those doors one Sunday and into other doors the next Sunday, and the next, until I found a church that felt like home.
Four walls do not make a faith. But without them, do I really have it?
I didn’t believe there was water in this canyon until I saw it, which is the definition of not-faith.
I sit beside the unbelievable stream. My husband leaps onto a giant fallen cottonwood trunk and walks down it.
He has leapt onto many less-advisable things with no consequences. But today his luck runs out. His foot slips and he lands with all his weight on his left ankle. A sprain.
Our car sits more than three miles away.
If we can get to the bottom of this steep trail, I can walk the two miles of forest road back to the car and drive it down to the trailhead to pick him up. My little car and this rough road are not a great match, but I’ve driven it out here before.
We navigate the trail around ridges, through arroyos. I look back at my husband. He doesn’t want to throw me off balance on the narrow trail. Instead, he leans on one of my hiking poles for support, favors his right leg and braces himself on rock with his right hand.
He catches my eye and grins, despite the pain.
Fifteen years ago, when we were dating, we traveled from the East Coast to visit his family in Santa Fe. My husband and his dad got violently ill with a stomach bug. As weak as my husband was, as bad as he felt, he still smiled at me and spoke with kindness.
That’s when I knew.
I catch a glimpse of a vault toilet far below. I know this toilet; I call it “toilet in paradise,” because of its beautiful setting. At the trailhead.
If I can see the trailhead, we can reach it.
Here I go again, believing only what I can see.
Still, it feels like faith.
Hike length: 6+ miles
Difficulty: moderate
Wildlife spotted/heard/smelled: Western bluebirds, butterflies, skunk, pinyon jays, crow, box elder beetles
Trail traffic: light
Woman Seeks Elevation 
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