Inner Resourcing and the Earth
Updated: 5 days ago
I recently had the opportunity to live wild for a short while in the canyons of Utah. It brought me to many edges, and I learned a lot, largely about myself. Most profoundly, I deepened my relationship with an often subtle inner resource, a power beyond self that emerges from within. In writing this blog, this inner resource unexpectedly showed itself as an interwoven thread, and ultimately as a response to each of the intentions I set forth with and wrote about in my previous blog.
There were 11 of us in the group, 8 participants and 3 leaders, on a Hunter-Gatherer course near Boulder, Utah. We spent our first 4 days at a basecamp on Boulder Mountain where we processed a Sheep, made pemmican, ground pinole, carved Paiute deadfall traps, knapped sharp edges from obsidian, prepared gourd bowls to carry water, and more. Following was a 9 day expedition in the nearby red rock canyons. We brought minimal gear including wool base layers, sweater and hat, rations of pinole and sheep fat that amounted to about 200 calories a day, and tools we had hand crafted at camp. We brought no knife, no lighter or matches, no water bottles, no jacket, no blanket, and no shelter.
While there are many details and stories I could share, here are my biggest takeaways:
1) Comfort is relative.
Sleeping through a cold night in a pile of leaves is much softer and warmer than laying on the cold ground; and Cottonwood leaves are much cozier than damp Pinon Pine needles. Rendered sheep fat is far less gamey, and more satiating, than fire-roasted mouse. Having no food at all will leave you with less energy and motivation than having a few hundred calories a day of pinole, Plantain leaves, and Sedge roots. Having to walk to the Spring for water is more taxing than using a faucet, and drinking Spring water is a cherished blessing over drinking muddy flood wash.
We were hungry gatherers. On just a couple hundred calories a day, we expended energy trapping, fishing, keeping our bodies warm at night, and hiking 5-8 miles between camps. Yes there were bouts of light-headedness, hunger pains, exhaustion, and emotion. But for the great majority, I was able to stay positive and productive.
Instead of resisting and ruminating, I emptied my mind and accepted. Though I was strained by the challenge, I did not perceive myself as suffering. As I wandered from modern comforts, I actually often felt more vibrant and alive than in my daily life. Perhaps because I had no other choice, when I was physically exhausted I tapped into something deeper within myself, a source of vitality that seems to be beyond the physical. Like an internal wellspring of energy, it welled up, made my eyes clear, my feet light, and my mind still.
Tasting that inner wellspring stirs a deep cellular memory, one that I’m certain many people know. Endeavors such as running or hiking long distances and clicking in to a fluid, effortless rhythm, as well as intentional fasting and a 4 day Vision Quest, have brought me to this place to varying degrees. To be without the comforts of the modern world forced me to tap into it, and while it remains mysterious and somewhat elusive, I have a strong calling to be in touch with that place of deep inner resourcing much more often.
2) Challenge brings clarity.
On the third night of the expedition phase, we had an awakening encounter with the great powers of weather and water. Late monsoons brought a flash flood to the Escalante River, and we had to swim out of our camping area in the middle of the night. We had about 90 seconds of warning before our beds were underwater.
Just moments before, I awoke to the sound of a tree cracking under the pressure of the river’s surging. I was sitting upright and alert, watching the movement of our leaders acutely when they woke the others. My gear was thrown into my bundle and wrapped around my back within a minute, as water literally rushed into our camp.
Swimming out of our camp across the now 20 foot wide swollen wash was easier than I had predicted. Luckily our camp was not right on the Escalante River. The water from the raging river had backwashed up the otherwise dry wash in front of our camp, so it was slower and with far less debris than the main river. I was one of the first to reach the other side, so I grabbed a thick sapling and, with one foot on dry land, grabbed the hands of those behind me to pull them in and push them up the bank.
It all seemed to take so long! While waiting for the last two to swim across, water from the Escalante broke through a 3 foot wide channel right in front of me, cutting across the land bridge we would take to our high point. It was an easy jump across, but alerted us to the imminent flooding that would soon cover our path ahead. We bolted. It was dark, with only 3 headlamps for 11 people. There was stumbling, voices crying out, fear, and determination.
We made it to the high point about 25 feet above the flood plain. We built a big fire, fast, as the waters filled in to about 6 feet below us.
The next morning I returned to the shallow cave where we had been sleeping the evening before. On my way there, the whole area looked so different, covered in mud and with freshly strewn debris hanging on the trees. I went cold imagining the water at my thighs in some places, and my chest in others, as I passed where we had barreled through the night before.
Seeing our camp was harrowing. The water line was more than 6 feet above our now mud laden beds on the cave floor.
Our camp area before the flood (above) and after (below).
Images ran through my mind of us being swept up, swirling in wild water, holding on to trees, or riding down the current until we caught one. Or one caught us.
At the end of the trip, when asked what my ‘high point’ was, I surprised myself when I recounted this night. Not because it was fun, or cool, but because of how I witnessed myself responding to the situation — with an absolutely lucid mind and fluid body. My head was crystal clear and present, my awareness was acute, and my reflexes swift. Far beyond pride, I am so deeply comforted to know that my physiology could respond to my instincts in the face of such a threat.
Again, and so poignantly, I felt resourced beyond myself, as though something within me, but bigger than me, was animating me.
3) Surrender relieves suffering.
On day 6 of the expedition, I finally realized that, for several reasons, we would not be flourishing, or even moderately self-sustaining, during this time of living wild.
I surrendered my ambition to ‘succeed’ in procuring a sustainable amount of food, or to significantly improve my skills in trapping or fishing. There was simply not enough time or energy for me to do so. While that likely sounds depressing, it was the opposite. Letting go of ‘trying’ brought me relief. I didn't surrender as in 'giving up', I surrendered to the unknown, and to the present moment. I said to myself, ‘ok, well I’m going fishing. This is what I do as a hunter-gatherer, I spend my time procuring food. That's just what I do.’
I spent the day wading in the cool river with the hot sun on my back. I continued to search for fish with focused intention but not attachment. I found myself peaceful, and in a deep, timeless silence. I was on ‘earth time’, fully present but without the nagging distraction of expectation. I found myself captured by Sedge, an edible water-loving plant, and relaxed into getting to know her. Learning from her how to harvest her roots and munching the tender shoots, a lovely sense of connection developed between us. I brought an armload back to the fire that night for the group to share.
We sat around the fire and shared it along with Prickly Pear pads, Spider Wort roots, one small fish, and 'tea' of salt and sheep fat.
It was simple, and it nourished our hearts to share the food we had gathered. Not a feast by any means, but the stillness of my mind, the lack of needing it to be more, made it enough, and I felt full.
While that mental and emotional surrender was a turning point for me, I had another experience of surrender that went even deeper...
Our last night out was the coldest. The tension in my muscles, my physiological attempt to stay warm, was not working, nor was it allowing me to rest. Each time I tossed or turned, my loose blanket of leaves would tumble to my sides, exposing me to the thick, chilly air. Frustrated, I asked myself ‘Do I need this tension? It doesn’t seem to help, so what if I let it go?’
I turned my focus deep inside my body, to the warmth in my core. With each exhale, I pushed heat out to my extremities, and cautiously released the holding in my muscles. My body relaxed, and I fell asleep. The few times I woke, I was aware of the cold seeping into me, and the cooling temperature of my flesh. But I kept my body relaxed and open, allowing the cold to slowly move in. I did this with awareness and curiosity, tracking the stream of sensation, feeling it without judging it as good or bad. Each time, my system responded with flushes of warmth and subtle flows of pleasant scintillation.
It felt amazing actually. I was cold, but the cold was a neutral presence rather than an adversary. I am still so curious about what was happening. What in the world is this sensation anyway? Was my body getting used to the cold, and building tolerance? Was this, yet again, the same inner source, the well-spring in action?
(Note: while drowsiness and the sensation of warmth are symptoms of advanced hypothermia, I never experienced the intense shivering that would proceed that stage.)
4) Land tending regenerates life.
Back on the first morning of the expedition phase, I walked the canyon bottom with my hand made Osage bow and Wild Rose blunts, looking for sign of rabbit or ground squirrel. It was eerily quiet other than the rushing waters of the river. While the occasional Chipmunk alarm pricked my ears, as far as I could hear, there were no bird sounds. I found a few old burrows of what I believe was Rock Squirrel, but no fresh sign of them, and no rabbit tracks, scat, or sign of browsing.
I looked disparagingly at the few species of plants around: Willow, Sage, Cottonwood, Tamarisk… so much Tamarisk! Tamarisk is native to Eurasia and Africa, and in this canyon bottom it was growing prolifically, outcompeting native species. It was clear the land here had not been tended in too long a time; the lack of biodiversity and dismal availability of food struck me deeply.
I let go of my plan to walk each morning with my bow. Why waste my limited energy for a fruitless endeavor? And beyond that, what about the Bobcats and Coyotes? What do they eat? Suddenly I didn't want to get another mouse in my deadfall trap. I didn’t want to take a Rabbit, or Rock Squirrel. I couldn’t fathom taking anything from this place without the opportunity to give back: to support the plants to propagate which in turn would feed the animals allowing them to flourish. The true need to tend the land was starkly clear.
It was as if the wellspring of the land itself was locked underground. The longing to help was heart wrenching. But there was little I could do as a caretaker of the Earth in such a short time. All I could do was love that place, send out my heart, and pray.
The Wellspring as Inner Source
In reflection, I believe the wellspring I experienced throughout this journey is the energy of the Earth herself, an empowered aspect of the ‘life force’ that sustains and animates us. I experienced it as more than myself, yet it was within me, and it also was me. It moved into and from my body as I got closer to the Earth, and sank more deeply into her skin.
I am grateful that I was able to receive and allow it to flow through me. If I was out of balance beyond a certain threshold of resilience, it may have remained locked and inaccessible. I believe that dancing with this wellspring, through pushing our edges and surrendering to its flow, builds our resilience and thus our capacity to channel it.
Similarly, tending the land supports all the beings on the landscape — the soils, the plants, the animals, and all — to come into balance and thus tap into this energy and open it within themselves. I see this embodiment of the wellspring as the natural state of a healthy ecosystem. When we walk into a harmonious, balanced ecosystem, we are filled with a sense of peace, and nourished by some invisible presence. In part, we are connecting to the wellspring, the inner source of light from our Mother Earth brought forth by each being and element in the diversity of life.
While the experience of living wild was a highly physical endeavor, it brought the Earth's energy to the surface of my awareness. It was a natural emergence, and I'm inspired by the potential that it holds. Embodying it in myself, and connecting to it in others and the whole of Nature, may even be my deepest longing, without having understood exactly what I've been longing for.
If you have experience with this wellspring of energy and feel called to share about it, or any reflections on this blog, please do email me at contact@sarahfontaine.com, I would love to hear from you!
And if you are interested in a deeper exploration of the energies of the Earth, and pathways for healing with the Earth, click here to check out the free online series Called by the Earth starting in November 2026.
