The mountainside fell down from a rocky peak and into a long, narrow valley. It was the place where three smaller rivers twisted their way out of steeper, darker places and joined to make one. In the fading afternoon light the wind sang gently. The Rockies are a land about as brutal as they are beautiful. So often in nature, it seems, the two go together.
Come morning and afternoon we hiked through sage and sarvisberry, through aspen, scrub oak and pine, up hills that make themselves into mountains. Along the way we stepped and slid through dry soil mixed with volcanic tumble, a glacial slurry eons in the making.
Base camp sat at 7,200 feet, more than high enough to notice the thin air, and every step upward served as a reminder. We walked and climbed until lungs burned, hearts pounded and breath rattled, then stopped and rested before doing it again.
The Catholics have a sense of atonement for sin in their discipline, and walks like these help even an old Methodist see why because, when we stand at last on a high slope, feet braced at an impossible angle and look out over a valley which no photos do justice, the suffering’s reward far outweighs the pain.
Buffeted by strong breezes that roll over ridgelines, warmed by a sun that seems all the closer for our travels, we come there to create our own rewards.
Having reached our hunt’s destination – or having been driven to ground by exertion alone, we sat and scanned bottoms and timberlines through heavy glass lenses, and watched spiders and ants crawl over sun-bleached twists and tangles of root and stalk. Mountain birds hunted bugs. Above, an eagle kited the thermals, holding position in the sky like magic before moving on.
Come midday and evening we hiked back down, empty handed far more often than not, that’s true, but taking with us a larger prize. It’s one that beggars description, though still requires us to try. It’s something that won’t fill a freezer or hang on a wall, but it’s something that is now part of us, and longer lasting.
The footprints we leave soon blow away, but the places remember. In the rocks and the trees our efforts remain. Sometimes, when we are quiet, they tell us their stories.
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You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 24 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
