A column about history, culture, policy, and things in between.
When people about eight or more years younger than I am (a regrettably large demographic) hear the name Steve Martin, any number of images may come to mind. They may think of the bumbling inspector Clouseau in the recent remake of The Pink Panther, the overly competitive and aging father in Cheaper by the Dozen, or any number of other images.
But I think people of my approximate age will always associate him with the outrageously ground-breaking comedian of the late 1970's. Whether he was striding across campus stages in his signature three-piece white suit, or gyrating and strutting as the Egyptian Pharaoh Tutt on the stages of Saturday Night Live, he rocketed from anyonymity to the pinnacle of pop-culture stardom in a matter of months. So good was his act that he was one of the few hosts that could stand up to the comedic blasts of Belushi, Akroyd, Radner and Murray, as that ensemble, fueled by the incomparable SNL writers, went about redefining what late 20th Centry America thought was funny. One of the mainstays of Martin's repertoire at that time was his infamous "Let's Get Small" sketch, which referred to an activity that was - ah - less than healthy.
Well last August the notion of "getting small" took on a whole new meaning for me, as three good friends and I spent a week back-packing and camping our way through the southern half of Glacier National Park in northern Montana.
We were fortunate to be there during the time of no moon, which meant that Montana's "Big Sky" nights treated us to an astronomical smorgasbord. Skies so black I thought God had spilled a giant bottle of ink over the night-time canopy, and then flung five-carat diamonds in the shape of stars to shimmer and dance on the surface of that ink. During daylight hours we saw abundant wildlife, massive glaciers whose melt watered the opaline-colored lakes, towering waterfalls, rocks and stones of every conceivable color, forests so dense they blocked the mid-day sun from the moss covered ground, deep emerald pools and laughing, tumbling streams. And of course, the spectcular, seemingly impregnable mountains themselves.
I will never forget the most rapid weather change I have ever experienced as we ascended the trail to Gunsight Pass. Within the span of twenty minutes, we went from sweating profusely in near 90 degree temperatures, to cold, damp, clammy conditions, as the narrow opening of the pass greeted us with fog, blustery winds, and temps. plunging to the mid-30's. The combined effect of this change sent us quickly into our packs for our gloves, sweathsirts, and Gortex jackets.
This weather soon passed, and we changed back into our normal gear. But as we continued on with the descent from the pass, I began thinking about Lewis and Clark, whose steps we were not far from retracing. I thought about that band of men and one woman (the Shoshone Indian guide Sacagawea), and their epic, almost mythological trek. I thought about how WE had a map and a trail to follow, with all the conveniences of our modern clothing, equipment, and freeze-dried food to sustain us. And above all, the knowledge that if something adverse did befall us, we were not more than one day's hike from safety and shelter. All THEY had was their wits, their rifles, and their indomitable resolve; what Thomas Jefferson rightly identified as Lewis' "undaunted courage".
I was humbled and encouraged at the same time. Humbled because I had been thinking our little group was doing something pretty neat, when by comparison, it was nothing. Yet I was also encouraged by the fact that our pioneering predecessors faced obstacles and challenges far greater than we do here in comfortable little Brookfield, and by their example, we can be emboldened and encouraged.
As we spent time in the shadow of the mountains, I also felt we were in the shadow of those great men and women. Standing there in the literal shadow of the mountains, and the historical shadow of our ancestors who crossed them, I felt small. I felt very small.
And that's a good thing. Because I don't know about you, but as I go about daily life, with all of its attendant business, responsibilities, writing, travel, meetings, and pressures, I can get to sometimes feeling "bigger" than I really am. When that happens, I try and think back to Gunsight Pass, and the humbling time I had there.
And every once in a while, let's try and take a minute at the end of a day, as we sink into our warm beds and go to sleep with Brookfield's finest watching over us, to think of Meriwether Lewis and his band, and other such heroic people whose heritage we are blessed to claim.
And lastly, let's consciously seek out activities and experiences that have the capacity to make us "small". Unlike the experience described by Steve Martin, these would be incredibly healthy.
