High Country Commentary

About High Country Commentary

Think Clearer, See Further, Hear Deeper. timberlineletter.substack.com (https://timberlineletter.substack.com/s/podcast?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Produced by Ed Chinn, Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy

Category

arts · religion & spirituality

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

17 Jun 2024

Latest episode

27 Aug 2026

Latest episodes

79 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   27 Aug 2026

   Chasing Rainbows

   Growing up under the wide Colorado sky, our family often watched the sun set behind the Rockies, casting pinks, oranges, and reds through our living room window. And every morning, the sunrise announced a new day to our castle. From our seats in that cosmic theater, we also watched storms roll from the west to east across our north horizon. Thunderclouds built and rumbled, taunting us with the possibility of rain. On one of those occasions, when my parents, my brother Christopher, and I stood marveling at a rainbow, Mom said, “Let’s go find the end of it!” We were old enough to know the pursuit would be in vain. But, with no voiced opposition, we loaded into the car and headed east. I remember sensations of hope, wonder, and stubborn optimism that sparked through my head. What if? What if C.S. Lewis was onto something, and we were about to enter another world? What if this turned out to be the grand adventure, the one that changed us in such a way that we would return from our journey as kings and queens? What if we found the pot of gold? Eventually, the sun set and we returned home. A brief adventure that concluded with the mundane rhythms of brushing teeth and going to bed. That was okay. It was never really about the rainbow anyway, but about child-like faith and wonder. I rested in deep satisfaction, with no need to touch the spectrum in the sky. The light of possibility had been enough for my soul. Years later, Mom and Dad drove me to California so I could chase another rainbow, an acting career. I had no degree and no guarantees. But I had parents who believed, smiled at the future, and sang old country songs through the arid lands of Utah, Nevada, and onto the Los Angeles freeways. They gave full support to my dream. For my brief California sojourn, I lived on two part-time jobs and the healthy dose of faith my parents deposited in me. But like the certainty of the setting sun, a low minimum wage and high gas prices brought an end to my time on the West Coast. Mom came and helped me drive back home. Just like the unsuccessful pursuit of the rainbow, my hopes didn’t die when the Hollywood sign shrank in my rearview mirror. It was fun while it lasted. But it was time to look towards something else. As we drove, my heart sorted the details. Maybe life doesn’t have to be filled with awards and accomplishments. Attaining wealth, promotions, fame, new furniture…they are all things that happen ‘out there.’ I don’t have to touch every shiny thing. Can I walk through boring days without facing an existential crisis? I’m still reaching for something greater, believing that one day I will be lifted into those arms that stretched rainbows across the sky and spun my dreams into existence. Meanwhile, I’d rather live on faith that sings through the dry places than give up on chasing possibilities. I didn’t find the end of the rainbow, but I did find the role of a lifetime—right in my home. Rainbows and other illusions may pull our gaze “where the grass is greener.” But the real pot of gold is always right here, right now. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe (https://timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2)

2. 

   14 Aug 2026

   The Circus Leaves Town

   I was a young lad when I first felt the rumble of a lion’s roar, heard an elephant’s shrill trumpeting, or felt the sudden plunge of a circus acrobat. Yet every day now, I see acrobats. A woman stands atop her own head. A soccer team competes against an identical, mirrored team. Four dogs chase four tails—or is it two dogs chasing two tails? Body parts float away. Walls disassemble like Lego bricks. Like the blind man before being healed by Jesus, I see “men as trees, walking.” I have double vision. A year ago, my befuddled brain quit deciphering my uncorrelated dual visual images. Double vision—diplopia—took over my world. I close one eye to read a book or negotiate a computer screen. Navigating a Los Angeles freeway is harder than driving bumper cars blindfolded. What is real? How do I know that what I perceive is trustworthy? Only two surgeons in Los Angeles perform the corrective surgery I needed. But a year of fighting procedures, policies, schedules, and insurance left me weary. Hope stayed far from my house. When I finally arrived at UCLA’s Stein Eye Institute, anxiety wrestled with joyful expectation. Several weeks earlier, my dry eye specialist—not my double vision specialist—had concocted a best-guess eyeglass prescription for my double vision. “Do you want to try glasses?” she had asked me. “If they work, you might be able to avoid surgery. But if not…” Knowing double vision was not her specialty, I dutifully, yet doubtfully, followed the dry eye specialist’s suggestion and ordered the glasses. I doubted they would help. Weeks later, when I finally arrived at my appointment with the UCLA double vision specialist, the doctor’s young assistant took over. “Okay, follow my finger with your eyes.” I followed the assistant’s finger up, down, left, right, then into each quadrant. Next came goggles, prisms, and eventually a test using a machine built in the 1930s, one of only two in the country. Popsicle sticks moved the examination slides into their proper places. By then the examination itself was beginning to feel like another circus act. At the end of my three-hour exam, bloodshot, bleary-eyed, and twisted with emotion, I awaited the pronouncement by my double vision doctor. And what about that long-shot prescription I had been given by the dry eye specialist several weeks ago? Double vision was not her expertise. But could her guess at a prescription really have been a fix? Or was it only a tease? My UCLA doctor’s pronouncement came in a thick Scottish brogue. What would he say about my double vision? “Well, Craig, you’ve probably had this condition for several decades. Previously, your brain adjusted to it, but it has stopped cooperating. Fortunately for you, it is now stable and will not worsen.” “And by the way, however she created it, that prescription you received from your dry eye specialist is perfect! Yes, you will need to wear glasses. And that’s the end of it. You don’t need surgery.” Then he smiled, “And you don’t need to see me anymore!” I sat staring at him, trying to find the words. Finally, my tightened throat gave way to words. “This is one of the best days of my life.” He was clearly taken aback. I continued, as I wiped tears from my eyes. “It’s been a tough year. A year ago, I began battling for my eyesight. And then I lost my wife in February. But I feel like this is Christmas. I’ve received a wonderful gift. So that makes you Santa … minus the white hair and beard.” The three-hour trip home through L.A. rush-hour traffic flew by. I barely noticed the accident in the lane beside me. I averaged twenty miles an hour. None of it mattered. Now, when I remove my glasses at night, the circus still returns. Acrobats tumble. Images split apart. Words climb over one another. But in the morning, my new glasses end the performance. Calm prevails. Double vision has proven to be a good teacher. It has taught me that life itself can be illusory. What appears real may not be. What seems worth reaching for may leave me grasping at air. So I keep on asking: Am I reaching toward what is real, or toward an illusion? Am I pursuing a misleading goal, or one of lasting value? While the circus hasn’t fully left town, double vision no longer occupies the center ring. And what’s a circus without the main attraction? The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe (https://timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2)

3. 

   5 Aug 2026

   Whiskey on a Sunday

   I joined the ranchers, farmers, and town folks who slowly gathered on a quiet Sunday morning in Bastrop, Texas. For several years, that “house church” had met in Bob and Sue Long’s home. Although they invited me to speak, I quickly realized the real speaker that morning was Bob and Sue’s dog, “Whiskey.” As soon as everyone sat in a circle, Whiskey wandered in and plopped down in the loop of boots and fell sound asleep. Totally relaxed, no concerns about religious etiquette or expectations. No fear of going to hell. She didn’t know or care that it was Sunday. The dog radiated the fullness of her dogness. She was a portrait of Peace in the Presence. The people sang. Whiskey slept. And God saw that it was good. One of the largest and oldest questions all humans face: How do creatures live in the presence of their Creator? Do I live from the fullness of God’s Fatherhood and design, or do I feel the need for continuous self-protection, affirmation, and cosmetic surgery? For me, it all took me back to when my uncle Harold died in a tractor accident in 1992. His siblings all worried about the impact of his death on their father. That was perfectly logical and understandable; Grandpa had lost his wife, Harold’s mother, just 30 days earlier. So, on that day, everyone whispered, tiptoed, and avoided conversations or eye contact with Grandpa. Finally, he nailed his daughter, “Vita, what’s going on around here?” She broke. “Oh, Daddy, it’s really bad.” “I know it’s bad. I just need a name.” That moment revealed a 95-year-old man who was at rest in his home, the universe, and the awesome God he’d known for nearly a century. He could face anything because of the great arc of his life and faith. Like a holocaust survivor, that arc had carried him beyond all that was theologically starched and packaged. Pascal wrote “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”[1] Grandpa had learned to be at rest in the Presence. Although he was a flawed man, he knew that whatever came from the hand of God would not injure him; it would not disturb his identity and security. Whatever your beliefs, assumptions, fears, or doubts, you are surely aware of an Awesome Presence. He is always there, loving us, unsettling us, confirming us, confronting us, stopping us, sending us. He does not intend to destroy us. We are the works of His hand. What makes us think he produces junk? We do not understand Him. But, as Whiskey would tell you, “Relax. The Presence is safe.” [1] Blaise Pascal, Pensées, fragment 139 (Brunschvicg edition) / 136 (Lafuma edition) The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe (https://timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2)