Mountain Church

At a contra dance I asked my partner what she does for a living. "A Lutheran Minister" she replied, and told me the church where she teaches at. During our conversation I admitted to her I have not been to a church in years. "Its just too hard to be inside on a Sunday Morning, when you can be out somewhere where there is the familiar scent of pine.", I told her. And its true - My idea of a good Sunday is breathing in the fresh mountain air and walking among trunks of patterned black to light brown bark, through the light green needles of a Ponderosa Pine forest. Up there I may get a glimpse of a mountain lion, or more likely mulde deer grazing on a hillside, or a coyote retreating through the mahogany and serviceberry. Some days I may feel the warmth of the sun as it rises over the plains. But even those days that are cool and windy are ok though. To hear the wind breezing through those branches is what I crave, and the best kind of hymnn there is.

I have no doubt that some very spiritual people feel God in a building on a Sunday Morning. But there are others of us who feel the divine outside, walking alone in the woods on a high ridge.

That is pretty close to what my dance partner minister said to me when I told her how I like to spend Sunday mornings. - some people are comfortable with solitude; others need to be affirmed of the divine in the presence of people. This made me think she was a wise lady, and even more so to undersand the renewal and joy of dancing.

She laughed when I told her my best weeks are those when I am alone in the mountains with my dogs, and then come down to dance and celebrate for the weekend.

My bet is that a lot of backpackers are like me, comfortable with the life and entertainment of the city, where we do our jobs, but the away time is precious, and is similar to going to church.

I am pretty sure I could spend a lifetime of Sundays in church and not feel what I did on my approach to the Cirque of the Towers, when two hawks drifted down on the thermals, to soar just above the spruce and fir treetops, in front of the white peaks of the divide.

Happy

I came up the north hill on Saturday morning when it was just starting to get a little warm, up to 40 degrees. The snow was melting in the field and 70 robins were in it, pulling worms out of the patches of bare soil. There might have been a few more, but I know there were a least 70 there, because I counted them, twice. I don't recall seing that many before.

As I crossed the field I saw a patch of deep blue in the white. It was a single mountain bluebird among the robins. The bluebird was calm about our presence and allowed me and Ben and Maggie to get withing fifteen feet before flashing its blue wings and being off.

I am getting more and more relaxed about this uncertain life, welcoming and enjoying simple beauty as I come across it unexpectedly, like a bluebird's wing.

Or the gentle touch and sweet fragrance of women on Saturday night, the wild Easter Daisy (Townsendia) I found on Sunday, and the sunrise this morning, purple to pink behind the black silohuettes of the cottonwood trees.

There are plenty of riches and destinations beyond what can be attained with my simple means, but I won't be mising them, because what I see every day is more than enough to keep a heart like mine happy.

March 22 Morning

Its still dark when I get up at 5am. By 5:20 it is beginning to lighten, and I am able to enjoy a walk as dawn moves across the landscape. The birds are already staring a spring chorus, at least on mornings like this one, when there are just a few wisps of clouds, and it can be seen that we are on the verge of a sunny spring day.

Its a steep climb down the north ridge to the meadow, and the temperature drops and the humidity climbs as you descend. A good sliver frost covered the meadow grasses, and held fresh scent of foxes that passed during the night, which interested Ben and Maggie immensely.

I have seen many beautifil and wondrous things while out walking over the years. Beauty is like love however, you want to experience it again and again, without end. My heart was lifted being down there, beneath the silhouettes of the cottownwoods with the sunrise light above, and mist from the lake drifting through them.

Bad Ben

I happened to catch a picture of Ben smiling this morning, as we walked down on the greenbelt through the snow. He is such a smart dog, and is not hard to read. Taking a walk makes him happy, going to the mountains backpacking makes him really happy, as does returning home and running out to check things out in the backyard. Strangers make him growl, but only if they look at him or talk to him.

Toys make him happy, which have to be extra durable or he will destroy them in a few minutes. He loves toys with bells in them, and I often find the toy with a single hole in it and the bell pulled out.

Catching frisbees makes him happy, although he only rarely makes a good catch. He often jumps and tries to grab the frisbee with his feet as well as his mouth, all at once, which is not very effective at making a catch, but good to knock it to the ground.

I play a game with Ben and Maggie where I turn off all the lights in the house and open the back door, then run to a hiding place. They come running in and check upstairs and down for Dad. They usually find me within thirty seconds, even in the dark, which like to think is more from their good noses rather than my strong scent.
"You found me", "You found me good dogs" is what I say when they do. They bark and chew on each other, and jump up to me, and smile.

The only way I can really hide good is to run out the front door, then go around into the back after they are inside looking for me. I let them look for a minute or two and then yell 'find Dad' into the open back door. They come racing out and down the steps to find me crouched behind a tree in the yard: 'good one Dad, you tricked us Dad.' seems like what their thoughts are as they jump on me.

I am eccentric enough to not even worry about whether I am or not. Just happy, like Ben.

Sunday Morning Snow

It was a perfect snow this weekend - late enough Saturday night that it did not affect going out dancing, yet leaving a blanket of white over everything for my Sunday morning walk.

One of the great blessing of Colorado are these springtime snowfalls. The snowflakes are so moist they stick to everything, so that the entire landscape is virgin white, from the ground on up to the tops of the tallest trees.

I think what I love as much as the landscape turned to white is the smell of the air after spring snow - crisp and clean. Its awful hard to describe. You have to be out there walking to get it.

The snow revealed all the nuances of the canine decisions of the foxes - step through these willows, check this meadow for mice. The same is true for their scent, which is no longer masked by the smell of grasses, soil, or diffused by wind, but is sharpened by the contrast of the snow. I can tell how my dogs act when they come upon a particularly fresh fox trail. I mention the word 'fox' as they investigate it, so we have can communicate about what came through here. I use the word when I see a fox running off that they have missed, because their heads are in the snow: "see the fox:", "there goes a fox". The dogs look up, sometimes just in time to get a glimpse of the white tip of the foxes' red tail just before it disappears into the willows or cattails.

As I crossed the bridge over the creek at the base of the north hill, I heard the chattering of some chickadees. Then I spotted one of the little birds flying into a patch of cattails. I watched as it stripped seeds from the cattails - its grey body, and black head, pulling from the rust-colored head that had a clump of snow still resting on its top, with the forest of woodland trees in white in the background.

It all made me happy, as in a homecoming type of happiness, from seeing this strong-spirited little bird again down there in the place we all regard as home - we being the chickadees, foxes, deer, racoons, ben, maggie, and me.

Luck

Do you ever feel like somedays just destined to be disasters? That you would have been better off not even trying, to just stay close to home and not attempt anything more than making a cup of coffee and reading a book?

I say this because of what happened to me this morning. I was standing at the back exit when the bus stopped, and driver said in the intercom to have a nice day. I looked up to him and waved and said thanks. As I did that I saw the front door open, and so I hopped down the steps to get off, right into the back door which was not open. I barely got my hand up in time to cushion my face from the impact of the glass, leaving me scrunched against the door. Then the door opened and I fell out into the gutter.

That has to be placed in a similar category as the time I asked a lady to dance on Saturday night, who was wearing a spaghetti strapped top. We were having a fine time, until my hand got caught under the strap as I lead her into a spin. I pulled my hand back and it slid along under the strap and into the front of her top. Its not easy to explain that away as an accident. She never did dance with me again after that. At least her top stayed up.

But if you are afraid of bad luck you will never get good luck. For the one time that the dance didn't go too well I have had a hundred that are so good they stay in my thoughts the next week.

And what looks like bad luck can turn on an inch or two. A couple of days ago while riding my bicycle on a downhill stretch of city sidewalk, a worker walked in front of me, carrying a board over his shoulder, straight up. I wasnt sure if he saw me when he got to a door, opened it, and started bringing the board down to horizontal so he could clear the door frame. I could see the board coming down, and lowered myself just enough to feel it graze over the top of my hat.

Single Shot Rifle and a One-Eyed Dog

loaded with cajun fiddle and a good beat, it is a fine song that is even better when played live, and you get to dance to it. Maybe you heard it, the one one that begins with the lyrics:

"Waiting in the front yard sitting on a log
Single shot rifle and a one eyed dog . . . "

When the band started it up, I knew I would find a partner, and I knew who I was going to ask first.

She was sitting at the back of a table with some lady and men friends, who I hoped none were her boyfriend. With the fiddle playing behind me, I leaned over and asked her to dance.

I don't know much about women, but I have figured out this much: All have the joy of a young girl inside, and with the right music and a good partner, they have a great time on the dance floor.

I think about times like that a lot the next week. It was not just that she was drop dead gorgeous, slender and athletic with long brown hair, or her pretty face. . .

It was the presence and glow she had when she smiled and spinned over the dance floor to my lead, that I remember.

I feel old sometimes, and I guess I am, but the fire in my heart and legs is not done yet, by a long shot. I am hoping that time nevers comes. When it does though, I can't think of better memories to have than all the pretty ladies I danced with, and perhaps all the mountain ranges I have climbed. That will be a lot to keep an aged heart full, to maintain a smile behind the eyes.

Who knows, maybe she will remembers it also, the music and and how much damn fun it was, dancing on saturday night while Snowy River played:

Well you get down the fiddle and you get down the bow
Take off your shoes and you throw them on the floor
Dance in the kitchen till the mornin' light
Louisiana saturday night

Waiting in the front yard sitting on a log
Single shot rifle and a one eyed dog
Yonder come the Kinfolk, in the moonlight,
Louisiana saturday night.

chorus

My brother bill and my other brother Jack
Belly full of beer and a possum in a sack
Fifteen kids in the porch light
Louisiana saturday night

chorus

Kin folk leave and the kids get fed
Me and my woman gonna sneak off to bed
We'll have a little fun when we turn out the light
Louisiana saturday night