Life’s steps sometimes lead me into a valley. Steep slopes hem me in on every side and elemental forces threaten to sweep me away. Looking up, the wide sky is compressed into a narrow sliver of light.
In many cultures, deep, dark valleys are potent symbols of sadness, setback and struggle. Evil dwells in the valley of the shadow of death, after all.
Yet valleys are not always places to walk in fear. Yes, they can be claustrophobic, unpredictable and even dangerous. But they can also be rich, enchanting places that are bursting with wild potential as they are carved by powerful forces.
Let me tell you about two valleys I know.
Afon Mawddach
One of my favourite walks in mid-Wales is the Mawddach Trail, which follows the river valley from the town of Dolgellau to the sea at Barmouth. The trail is flat and accessible, so perfect for walkers with limited mobility.
The Mawddach valley was carved by a retreating glacier around 15,000 years ago and has slowly filled with gravel from the Irish Sea. Along the south bank of the Afon Mawddach, a 15-kilometre path follows the course of an old railway line, winding through woodland and turning across the bridge that spans the estuary to reach the seaside resort at Barmouth. On a clear day, the view from the bridge affords a glimpse of the peak of nearby Cadair Idris.
The more-than-human community fills the valley with extraordinary abundance. The Afon Mawddach’s wetlands are home to wildflowers, dragonflies and birds. Ravens shout their cronking calls as they barrel roll in the breeze. Even if rain comes, which it often does, Barmouth and Dolgellau alike welcome wet walkers with warmth.
Lustleigh Cleave
The Mawddach Trail offers consistently safe walking, but not all valleys are so predictable. Lustleigh Cleave is one of the many gorges that cut through the high granite of Dartmoor in Devon, and like nearby Wistman’s Wood, it’s home to one of the last remaining areas of temperate rainforest in Britain.
I had planned to spend the night wild camping in the valley at Lustleigh Cleave, swinging in my hammock between moss-covered oaks. I parked in nearby Manaton and followed the track out of the village, down the steep hill and across the small wooden bridge. The path meandered through the ancient trees, and several turns later, I was lost in the woods. Below me, the River Bovey gurgled gently, birds sang, and I settled in for a magical night alone under the canopy.
Night fell. And then rain came. Not in the valley at first, though I would soon be drenched by the thunderstorm that rolled across the moor. I could hear the river beginning to rise with a deafening roar, and I knew it was time to find shelter. Soaking wet, I packed up my camping spot and headed to safety. But I lost the path and sank thigh-deep into a bog as lightning illuminated the twisted branches around me.
Grabbing at tree roots, I eventually pulled myself out of the thick mud. The pouring rain washed me clean as I limped back to my car. My boots finally dried out three days later.
Different valleys
I share these contrasting stories to highlight the simple fact that not every valley is alike. Some valleys are welcoming for everyone, even in inclement weather. Others appear to offer much but can turn into terrifying ordeals. I can’t always know what type of valley I’m walking into until the weather changes. But I know it’s always safer not to walk alone.
Life’s valleys are much the same. Through the years, I’ve found myself at many low points. In retrospect, some of those places were rich and abundant, and I gained so much from exploring the mysteries that were waiting to be found in the depths. Other valleys were less hospitable, even dangerous, and I needed help to climb to safer ground.
Sometimes, the right response to a valley is to push on. Othertimes, I need to retreat. But I’ve learned not to resent valleys for existing; after all, hills and mountains are impossible without them. Life’s ups always seemed to be counterbalanced by the downs. Peaks and troughs are inevitable in emotions, relationships, communities, and nations. And in every valley, there are greater forces at work.
Elemental forces
Valleys are a testament to the patient power of water. Given enough time, a steadfast stream can slice through even the most robust rock.
Most valleys are created by rivers, but some are gouged even more deeply and widely by glaciers. The sheer weight of ice generates a liquid layer that traps rocks and boulders, scouring the earth and leaving a debris field as the freeze melts away.
Elsewhere, when tectonic forces tear valleys into the face of the planet, the resulting low ground creates an opportunity for water to carve deeper. Even desert valleys, dry for much of the year, are powerfully reshaped by seasonal flooding.
Apparent solidity will always eventually give way to persistent fluidity. Valleys cannot exist without water, and with water comes life. But the same natural force can be perilous, too. As Craig Childs points out in his book, The Secret Knowledge of Water, more people die in deserts from drowning than thirst as flash floods rise and refill dried river beds.
If I find myself in a valley, I need to remember that it’s been created by forces far beyond my control. Sometimes, my personal valley is only one piece of a much wider landscape. And it might not be the valley itself that threatens me, but the water that floods through it.
Walking together
Deep, dark valleys can be unpredictable places, and it’s always better to walk through them with others. If there is magic to be found, I can share the joy of discovery with a friend. But if I’m in danger, I am safer if I am not alone.
This whole article was inspired by a half-remembered song that visited me during the events of this week. I chased it around my brain until I recalled enough of the lyrics to track it down.
“Every step you take is guided by
The map of the light on the land
And the blackbird's cry
You will walk
You will walk
You will walk in good company”
The Valley was written by Canadian songwriter Jane Siberry and covered by k.d. lang on her album Hymns of the 49th Parallel. It's a song about resilience and hope, being unapologetically yourself, rising up from the valley and finding your people. If you find yourself in a valley right now, I hope this song reaches you, letting you know you’re not on your own.
And whatever dark valleys lie ahead of us, individually and collectively, and however dangerous the forces moving around us, can we commit to being good company for each other? Let's not walk alone any more.
What a beautiful message ❤️🩹
So beautifully written. Thank you for taking us with you 💙