Runoff

Its been a long time since I have heard the waves of an ocean, but today me and Ben and Maggie (my border collies) stood on the banks of our river, and heard the sound of snowmelt rushing towards the sea. I was thinking this is pretty close to the roar of the waves, just more continuous, with less ebb and flow.

Normally the river is subdued and makes about as much noise as a stuff breeze moving through the cottonwoods. Today it roared with speed and intensity, and is the sound of summer in my country. It means that the mountains are clearing, and I will be able to get up there for the many high journeys the dogs and me take every year.

Our first trip was last week. I started up a trail at 9000 feet, and planned to go as far as I could before being cut off by heavy snow. To ny surprise we made it all the way to 10000 feet - only a few hundred feet below timberline. Noone else was up there, which just amazed me.

I mean the dogs and I were in this massive subalpine basin, lined by snow peaks. Our camp was on a ridge over a deep steep walled valley, covered with spruce and fir at the top, and lodepole and aspen further down. It was quiet, except for the far-off sound of a waterfall in the valley, and an occasional breeze in the spruce, and the sprarse songs of mountain birds. So picture us three up there, on our ridge, checking out the view of the peaks, listening to the sounds from the valley, and not one other person was up there - we had it all to ourselves.

That is what I had in mind on the way up - to get a strong dose of solitude and mountain beauty. And that is what I love about the West - experiences like that are not hard to find in these mountains. There is enough room to figure yourself out, to make you humble, and to understand in your hear that the silence of the mountains becomes is the voice of the divine.

It was a good trip, and there are plenty more to come once that rest of the snow runs down the river me and Ben and Maggie walk by every morning.