Around the middle of May, I decided (along with my spouse, Joyce) that I needed to take stock of myself, find direction in my life, and re-establish my connection with Nature. Inspired by my fraction of Native American heritage, I set out on my own version of a Vision Quest around the mystically auspicious date of the full moon in May.

Supposedly the Buddha attained enlightenment during a full moon in May many hundreds of years in the past. Now, that fullness of the moon in May every year is known as Wesak, and, according to legend (and fact for some), the Buddha and other Ascended Masters walk the earth on that day.

I wanted to experience the power of the "Wesak Moon," and work in solitude with those powerful psychic energies during my Vision Quest. Regardless of one's belief in the supernatural power of such a time, a full moon filled with the remembrance of a saint beloved and respected by millions, is a significant metaphor for the possibility of spiritual growth.

Though the Vision Quest in associated with native peoples--especially the Native American--some form of it is found in almost all cultures. Thus, I have no problem with mixing ideas from one belief system with another. The trappings of religions and spirtual paths may vary, but there is only one Spirit in my opinion.

Briefly, a Vision Quest is a method for gaining insight into oneself. In times of crisis or as a method of self discovery, the seeker goes into the wilderness, usually alone. Sometimes the seeker engages in various spiritual practices, such as fasting and meditation or sacred dancing or purifies the physical vehicle in a sweat lodge.

On a Vision Quest the seeker is looking for insight or perhaps a "sign" to help reveal some aspect of truth or personal path that one should take through life.

I kept a running diary of my thoughts and experiences during the time of the Quest, a time of profound renewing of my relationships with Spirit and the Earth. Here then are some entries in my journal that I think may be of interest.

Wednesday - Arrive the latter part of the morning at the Forest Service campground on the Breitenbush River (near Detroit, Oregon) where Joyce and I have camped several times. I am delighted when I see that my favorite campsite right on the river is available. Actually, I am the only person in the whole campground. The weather is still too cool except for the most devoted of campers.

Before putting up my tent, I carry my latte to a picnic table, and the irony is not lost on me as I sit drinking this most civilized and "high tech" of beverages while watching and listening to the ancient sound of the Breitenbush as it rushes over stones and logs. I hear songbirds and the bass drumming of a woodpecker against a hollow tree.

I do not hear any of the sounds of humankind—no running automobile engines, passing drifts of conversation. The "brethren" have been here though; through cracks in the table I see a beer can (which I pick up and put in the trash).

Early afternoon: I am tired after setting up camp by myself. I miss Joyce; we usually work together to set up the tent and cooking area. I wish that I had slept better the night before; my lack of rest contributes even more to my exhaustion.

Sitting at the table fixing a simple meal of bread, nut butter and raisins, I realize suddenly that I am hearing the river. Already I have grown used to it that I am taking its sound for granted. The continual roar however has carried me inward.

I sit for a long time—maybe hours—just listening to the sound of the River. I am reminded of a passage from German/Swiss writer Herman Hesse's spiritual classic, Siddhartha:

Happily he looked into the flowing river. Never had a river attracted him as much as this one. Never had he found the voice and appearance of the flowing water so beautiful. It seemed to him as if the river had something special to tell him, something which he did not know, something which still awaited him.

Evening: I brought some wood with me, but I find lots of abandoned firewood at nearby campsites; I shall have plenty for my campfires. As the twilight deepens, I build a fire in the grated fire pit provided by the U.S. Forest Service. The fire pit is behind me as I sit at the table facing the River. Both the river and the fire are so mesmerizing, and I take turns watching each.

I find my head emptying of neurotic thought and concern as I sit with senses full of the sights and sounds of the River. Where I am camped, I am less than 30 feet from the River. I watch the white water rushing around boulders and half-sunk logs.

Across the River I see into a forest composed mostly of towering Douglas Fir, the state tree of Oregon. I notice there are many ferns trailing along the forest floor with a few broken deadfalls.

As twilight turns into evening, I light my Coleman Lantern—certainly a convenience unknown to my ancestors who relied on campfires and torches to illuminate the darkness. I have many books with me, but I choose not to read, as I continue just to sit quietly watching and listening to the River and the crackling fire.

Finally, I turn off the lantern; it's just too bright and intrusive here in this wilderness setting. The night is mostly clear, and I wander away from the campsite to find an area of the sky that is not blocked by trees.

As is usualy with me when I camp out or visit in the country, I am out in the velvety blackness looking for stars. Whenever I leave the city, one of the things that I look forward to so much is being able to observe a truly dark night sky. Having grown up in the country before the advent of those terrible sodium vapor lamps that now dot rural America, I simply cannot adjust to living in the city where the sky is always a dark "milky" color at night. It is never truly dark within 25 miles of an American city, so pervasive is the light "pollution" in the 21st century.

Thrilled with the myriads of stars I see through the canopy of the forest, I find some familiar constellations: Orion, Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper (Ursa Major). Wandering to another area, I spot the "eye-teasing," tantalizing and barely visible cluster of the Pleiades, sometimes known as the Seven Sisters.

The firmament is so uplifting. I have always been obsessed with stars; my first fascination as a child was with astronomy. In the starry night, I feel a sense of timelessness, connected in wonder with some ancient, inchoate wisdom.

After a while I head back to camp. The fire has died down, and I go into the tent, and shedding a few clothes and my shoes, curl up in my sleeping bag.

I have to admit that I am a little scared to be the only person for miles around. Idly, I wonder if there have been any sightings of grizzly bears or cougars lately. However, I am so exhausted that I fall asleep after only a few minutes.

I woke up about 3:00 in the morning, needing to answer Nature's call. I fumbled around in the dark and finally finding all the "blasted" zippers, pulled back the tent flaps and stepped out onto the dark forest floor.

I looked at the River, thrilled to see that the moon had risen and reflected powerfully off the water. The strength of the moonlight was amazing and lit up the entire forest.

Even more remarkable, the Breitenbush had turned into a "river of light." The silver of the moon reflected brightly off of the white water rapids across from my camp.

Honestly, the moon on that River was one of the most magical things that I have ever experienced. I actually looked around for fairies and expected to find them in this setting.

I didn't see any fairies though it was not for want of looking. They were there though, I am sure, hiding in shadow of leaf or stone or more likely materializing as a sudden, brilliant stipple of light when a moonbeam brightened, playing in merriment and delight. I only needed the heart of a child to see them.

To be continued. . .

Copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.