Posted by: highmountainmuse | May 15, 2009

An afternoon stroll

Gazing up at Pole Mountain in May

Gazing up at Pole Mountain in May

How quickly spring comes and plays her magic on the mountain.  Winter comes and stays for months; summer just for weeks. Spring and fall are not seasons of staying, but of changing, of transformation, a quiet but rapid revolution of the land.

Lost Trail Creed running off with the snow from the high country.

Lost Trail Creek running off with the snow from the high country.

Into the woods I wandered, hearing the crunch of dried leaves and branches fallen from last year, having been hidden for months, now dry beneath the newly exposed ground. The rivulets that were rushing throughout every low and steep draw last week have already come to an end, yet the creek flows heavy and strong with the melt off now from the snow covered peaks reaching well above tree line.

 

Even in the high country where the snow has cleared the path for the new growth, a faint but unmistakable green tint is visible. How quickly the changes must progress here, with the fleeting time frame. The succession of the seasons runs by so quickly, and rests only for a deep breath in the warmth of summer with the lazy long sunlit evenings; and then for a while, a deep sleep after the snow has come and covered the mountain with the gentle, calming blanket of winter. Otherwise, she moves rapidly, rushing out the cycle of life in such a brief but wildly fertile spell.

Iris buds:  The promise of blooming

Iris buds: The promise of blooming

I found a single patch of iris already putting out their buds.  A promise of life, a promise of the burst of color, of the short but intense battle to bloom in this high and mighty land.

 

Lost in the whirlwind of the changing seasons, part of the movement and flow, no time to settle into stagnant waters. Suddenly September was within me again.  I felt the same sunlight on my cheeks, the crisp chill in the air, the excitement and anticipation of the change of seasons.  How odd to forget which way we were changing, which direction we flow.

 

I daydreamed of the elk, of the journeys and adventures that hunting season takes us on, as I hiked by a little grove that is often the last place we say farewell to our neighborhood elk each December, before the snow drives the last of them to lower ground.

 

And just then, before me, a crashing through the trees revealed three or four elk, red as the bark of the spruce trees in the fresh new summer coats. Some of the first back to their mountain, waiting to be in that sweet grass on the other side of the trail.

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Responses

  1. Ginny:
    Your mom turned me onto your blog.

    I miss the western slope, the mountains, the ranch life.

    Your blog allows me to step into that world again, and breath deeply, ears attuned to the sounds of the mountains.

    Is there a link to the sound of the boreal frogs? Your mom shared with me the experience she had on her recent visit with you and I long to hear their song.

    While we’ve never met, you’re a tremendous inspiration for me.

    My heart is so heavy for the losses of the baby horses. They are such a strong life force, at any size, that their absence leaves a palpable void. I will keep the babies to come in June in my prayers that all will be well.

    Feel free to e-mail me, stuck for now in urbia.

    Best
    Kim
    (Abby is now walking…maybe we can come for a visit?)

  2. Kim, I’m really glad you wrote, thank you…
    So much to say… I’ll probably not find any right things to say, but I’ll try, I’ll start at least…
    You’re brave and strong and have been fighting one heck of a battle and we are so in support of you.
    Yes, come for a visit. There’s room and time between now and the forth of July. I think you and Abby will be comfortable and safe here.

  3. I HOPE YOU DONT MIND IF I JOIN YOU ON YOUR WALKS IF ONLY IN MY DREAMS . WHAT A WONDERFUL PLACE .YOUR STORIES GIVE THE BEST VIEW FOR THEY MIND I HAVE EVER READ
    KEEP IT UP .


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