– in the Fall Creek Falls in Tennessee State Park

We ran one hundred ten miles
across the globe
to Spencer, Tennessee,
two hours away
from the familiar world.

Then, step by step,
only 0.35 miles down,
we entered
the deep heart of hell.

Forty-five minutes descending,
with weakened knees,
without trekking poles,
each step heavier
than chained feet
being led into darkness.

The path fell sharply,
rocks beneath our feet,
uneven ground,
rough steps twisting downward.

Above us,
the ceiling of stone leaned over the trail
as though it might fall
at any moment.

The sleepy faces of ancient rocks
seemed to whisper:

Stop.
Go back.
Why are you going downhill
so late in your life?

Do not try hell.

Yet we continued.

From the spectator’s place at the top,
we had seen a fish
moving through the dark pond below,
a tiny life
inside the shadow.

On our way down
we met a dog
coming back up.

He had been swimming
in that dark pond at the bottom.

He did not look tired at all.

No fear.
No complaint.
No trembling knees.

Only the dog
walking upward
as if hell
were simply another place
to swim.

When at last we reached the bottom,
we discovered
many people had already arrived.

They rested peacefully
among the rocks.

We gave up trying
to reach the dark water itself.

Instead,
we stood still
and looked upward.

From heaven
a long silver hair
fell 256 feet
into the dark pond below.

But the silver hair
was not one strand.

It broke apart
into millions of drops,
each surrendered to gravity,
each falling freely
into darkness.

And yet,

with her silver essence,
she carried light
into hell.

Less than half a mile down,
yet it had felt
longer than an afternoon,
longer perhaps
than distance itself.

Slowly the great sinkhole
filled with shadow.

The light withdrew.

Time and space
returned to our minds
and whispered:

Now.

You must climb.

Our mission was done.

We rested,
then turned our faces upward.

A middle-aged man passed us.

We asked,

“Were you the man
we saw behind the waterfall?”

“Yes.”

A minute later
he disappeared from our sight,
climbing the dangerously sharp, rocky path
as though flying
toward heaven.

But I could not fly.

My two hip sockets
grew heavier
and heavier with pain.

The walls pushed us upward.
The ceiling of rock pushed us upward.
The dark pond behind us
pushed us upward.

Zigzagging,
we climbed.

The dark brown road to heaven
was no lighter
than the road to hell.

Every step became slower.

Every breath became deeper.

Every rock seemed heavier.

Hell was easy to enter.

Heaven
required climbing.

Yet through the opening above us,
the colors of the season
began to shine.

Gold.
Crimson.
Orange.
Green surrendering gently
to another life.

And we could not forget
to shout:

“The heaven in the season’s colors
brings our hearts
great joy and praise.”

Then I understood:

Heaven had not been waiting
only at the top.

It was in the silver water
falling into darkness.

It was in the dog
who swam without fear.

It was in the stranger
flying upward.

It was in our painful knees,
our aching hips,
our struggling breath,

and in each stubborn step
that refused
to remain below.

Perhaps this is
traveling to normal:

to descend
into what looks like hell,

to discover
a little heaven there,

and then,
slowly, painfully, gratefully,

to climb again
toward the light.