My Spiritual Ascent of Multnomah Falls: Apparently Enlightenment Is Uphill

There are some places where you can almost feel the energy before you even understand why.

Multnomah Falls in Oregon is one of those places.

You arrive, look up at that magnificent waterfall dropping through the green Oregon landscape, and immediately think:

Wow. This place is incredible.

Then you discover there's a trail to the top.

And because apparently simply admiring natural beauty from ground level isn't good enough for me, I thought:

I need to climb that.

This is where my spiritual journey began.

It is also where my legs began questioning several of my recent life choices.

Multnomah Falls Has Levels

Multnomah Falls is one of those places that changes depending on where you're standing.

From the bottom, the falls are almost storybook beautiful.

Water drops dramatically down the basalt cliffs, surrounded by that incredible Pacific Northwest greenery, with Benson Bridge crossing in front of it.

It's the classic Multnomah Falls view.

You stand there looking upward thinking:

Nature is magnificent.

Then you start hiking.

Soon you're thinking:

Nature could have installed an escalator.

The Bridge Changes Everything

Reaching Benson Bridge gives you a completely different relationship with the waterfall.

You're no longer simply looking at it.

You're inside the experience.

You hear the water differently.

You feel the mist.

You sense the movement.

You notice the people around you reacting to the same thing.

And this is where the metaphysical side of the experience really started kicking in for me.

There is something powerful about standing among strangers who are all momentarily focused on the same natural wonder.

Nobody needs to explain it.

Everybody just seems to understand:

This is special.

And Then I Kept Going...

Of course, the bridge wasn't enough.

There's more trail.

And more uphill.

And more switchbacks.

And somewhere along the way I realized something very important about spiritual enlightenment:

Apparently it requires cardio.

I'm in decent shape, and I still found the climb taxing.

This isn't one of those hikes where you casually wander along while contemplating the mysteries of existence.

There were moments when my deepest metaphysical thought was:

How much farther is this freaking thing?

The trail climbs steadily, and you begin appreciating every flatter section as though you've just discovered beachfront property.

But that's also part of what made the experience so rewarding.

The Spiritual Power of Stopping

One of my favorite things about the climb was realizing that stopping wasn't failure.

There were places along the way where you could stop, catch your breath, look around and simply take everything in.

The forest.

The cliffs.

The Columbia River Gorge.

The sound of water somewhere nearby.

The people moving up and down the trail.

At first, maybe you stop because your legs request a meeting.

But then something happens.

You start noticing things.

That's when a physical break can become a spiritual one.

We spend so much of life focused on reaching the next destination that we forget there's usually something worth seeing between where we started and where we're going.

Maybe that's one of hiking's greatest metaphysical lessons.

Stopping doesn't mean you're quitting. Sometimes stopping is where you finally notice the journey.

The Energy of Everyone Who Climbs

I also love the energy created by other hikers.

You're surrounded by people of different ages, backgrounds, abilities and probably wildly different reasons for being there.

Some are charging uphill.

Others are moving slowly.

Some look incredibly peaceful.

Some look like they're negotiating directly with their lungs.

But everyone is sharing the trail.

There's an unspoken camaraderie that happens during a challenging hike.

A smile.

A nod.

A quick hello.

Maybe somebody coming down tells you:

"You're almost there!"

Although I've learned never to completely trust hikers who say this.

"Almost there" in hiking language can apparently mean anything from 200 yards to another geological era.

Still, that encouragement matters.

You begin feeding off the energy of everyone who has made the same climb before you—and everyone making it alongside you.

Three Views, Three Different Realities

What fascinated me most about Multnomah Falls was how completely my perception changed during the climb.

At the bottom, the waterfall was beautiful.

It was something I admired.

From the bridge, it became immersive.

I could feel its presence.

But at the top, everything changed again.

Now I wasn't simply looking at the waterfall.

I was seeing where all that power came from.

Standing near the upper viewpoint and seeing the water rushing toward the edge gives you an entirely different appreciation for what you were looking at from below.

From the bottom, water seems graceful.

From the top...

That water means business.

It's moving with purpose.

Then it reaches the edge and commits completely.

No hesitation.

No grabbing onto a tree root saying:

"I've reconsidered this."

It goes.

Maybe That's the Lesson

There's something wonderfully metaphysical about that.

We spend so much of our lives standing at the edge of things.

Thinking.

Analyzing.

Worrying.

Overthinking.

Wondering whether we're ready.

Water doesn't do that.

It follows its path.

It moves.

It changes shape.

It encounters obstacles and goes around them.

And eventually it reaches the edge...

And falls.

Not because it failed.

Because that's where the journey takes it next.

Maybe there's something we can learn from that.

Perspective Changes When You Do the Climbing

There's another lesson Multnomah Falls gave me.

You cannot understand every perspective from one location.

The waterfall didn't change.

I did.

At the bottom, I saw one version.

On the bridge, another.

At the top, another.

Life works exactly the same way.

We often become convinced that our current perspective is reality.

But sometimes we simply haven't climbed high enough yet.

Experience changes perspective.

Age changes perspective.

Relationships change perspective.

Loss changes perspective.

Adventure changes perspective.

Sometimes all we need is to move.

The Climb Makes the View Different

Had someone magically transported me to the top, the view still would have been beautiful.

But it wouldn't have meant the same thing.

The effort mattered.

The heavy breathing mattered.

The tired legs mattered.

The moments when I wondered why I hadn't simply stayed at the bottom with the sensible tourists mattered.

Because accomplishment carries its own energy.

When you've worked to reach somewhere, you experience it differently.

You don't simply see the view.

You earned your relationship with it.

Coming Back Down

And then comes one of hiking's great tricks.

You reach the top.

You celebrate.

You feel spiritually accomplished.

You congratulate yourself.

And then you remember...

You have to walk all the way back down.

The Universe apparently believes enlightenment should include a return trip.

But even the descent feels different.

You're not the same person who started climbing.

You know what's ahead.

You recognize places you passed earlier.

You notice things you missed.

And suddenly you're the person passing somebody climbing upward.

Maybe they're tired.

Maybe they're questioning their decision.

Maybe they're wondering how much farther.

And now you get to smile and say:

"You're almost there!"

Even if you're not entirely sure that's true.

Making Peace With Life at Multnomah Falls

My climb up Multnomah Falls wasn't simply about reaching the top.

It was about movement.

Effort.

Energy.

Perspective.

Nature.

People.

And the reminder that some of life's greatest experiences require us to work a little harder than expected.

Sometimes you admire life from the bottom.

Sometimes you stand in the middle of it and feel the mist.

And sometimes you climb until your legs are screaming just so you can finally understand where all that power is coming from.

Every level shows you something different.

That's life.

We climb.

We stop.

We breathe.

We look around.

We borrow a little energy from the people traveling beside us.

And eventually we discover that the destination wasn't the only thing that mattered.

The climb changed us too.

And standing at the top of Multnomah Falls, watching that water race toward the edge, I couldn't help but think...

Maybe Making Peace With Life isn't about finding a place where everything becomes easy.

Maybe it's learning to appreciate the climb...

even while you're desperately looking for the next place to sit down.