Lightning was striking everywhere, and each time it did, a blindingly bright flash was followed by a deafening crack of thunder. When the weather chaos first started, I’d figured it might be wise to do something about it, but I didn’t. But once the lightning bolts started lighting up individual trees, I sprang into action.
If there’s a Heaven, and assuming that’s where I go, I hope there are:
Bluebird skies to fill my eyes,
Brilliant stars to light the nights,
Unknown trails to touch my feet,
Mountaintops to hope to reach.
Lot’s of trees to fill the forests,
Golden Trout to take my flies,
Sketchy ledges to try to ride,
Good friends to walk beside.
Open spaces just to wander,
No time to waste or squander,
Stiff breezes to nudge me onward,
No false summits to tease me forward.
Silent places to clear my head,
Smells of flowers to fill my nose,
New horizons to give me hope,
Boundless vistas to help me cope.
Solid rock to hold onto,
Cooing doves to listen to,
Flowing rivers to float my boat,
Roaring rapids to hope to float.
.
Massive glaciers to ski across,
Mountain streams to need to cross,
Flat spots to pitch my tent,
Stacks of rocks to block the wind,
Deep crevasses to blow my mind,
Smokeless campfires to warm my spine,
New treasures to try to find,
No good times to leave behind.
Audio Version:
Dreams of a river
Full of trout,
And an alpine summit
Without a route;
Of slippery slopes
All clad in ice,
And trail suppers served
Without any rice;
There’s alpine tundra
Filled with flowers,
Lonely mountaintops
With red rocky towers;
Huge herds of Bison
Shake the ground,
And Mule Deer run
Without a sound;
A strong wind answers
With silent breath,
The persistent questions
Of life and death;
Bull Elk bugle
Their signalling call,
While Aspens brighten
A mountain fall;
There are spongy hummocks
Of wetland grass,
And clear blue lakes
As smooth as glass;
The horizon’s filled
With massive peaks,
Snow-melt fills
A maze of creeks;
Unknown trails
Are everywhere,
I wonder which
Will take me there;
There are boulder fields
And talus slopes,
Berry vines
And climbing ropes;
Happy faces
Wide open spaces,
A lot of places
With few human traces;
I open my eyes
And step back onto the trail.
I breathe in deep;
Choose where I’m going;
Smile; and exhale.
Audio:
Drizzly days
And hilltop haze.
Northern Lights
And starry nights.
Soggy trails
And empty sails.
Mountaintops
And hurt that stops.
Fields of flowers
And meteor showers.
Desert sands
And barren lands.
Paths aplenty
And options many.
Frozen hands
And fouled up plans.
Horrid heat
And driving sleet.
Summit hopes
And gentle slopes.
Thirst unquenched
And clothes all drenched.
Grazing herds
And flocks of birds.
Gentle breeze
And massive trees.
Blowing gales
And monster tales.
Wild Strawberries
And pristine prairies.
Foot stuck in mud
And massive flood.
Thorny shrubs
And a boot that rubs.
A swimming Otter
And fresh running water.
Deep snow on ridges
And rotten bridges.
Double rainbows
And grassy meadows.
Warm sunshine
And stars align.
Runout cracks
And big bear tracks.
Possibilities many
And thoughts of plenty.
No food or drink
And skunks that stink.
Butterflies
And stormy skies.
Hornet stings
And Condor wings.
Times of wonder
And times of thunder.
Wobbly fawns
And rainy dawns.
Squirrels at play
And birds of prey.
Rose hip tea
And churning sea.
Majestic views
And trails you lose.
Grand waterfalls
And sheer cliff walls.
Warming fire
And prickly briar.
Red sunsets
And route regrets.
Blue noontime sky
And dust in eye.
Lost, then found
And a cracking sound.
Unseen growls
And hooting owls.
Joyous hoots
And slippery roots.
Thank-god Holds
And summer colds.
Scree to ski
And crashing tree.
Moonlight glow
And blowing snow.
Horny Toads
And unneeded roads.
Times of glitch
And times of rich.
Times of pain
And times of gain.
Outside the door
There’s lots of or.
There’s good and bad.
And happy and sad.
So,
Embrace the rhymes
And engage the times.
———————————————————–
Audio Version:
He yelled to us to stop, from out of nowhere, it seemed. It was startling, and one of the last things on my mind, as I led the group of 9 teenage backpackers down the trail, headed back to our Base Camp facility after a week out in the Lost Creek Wilderness. We’d be back in less than an hour except for whatever was about to happen. He was ragged-looking, probably in his 40s, had a Pit Bull by his side, and, thankfully, kept his distance across a dry wash.
Lightning streaked across the sky and was followed instantly by an explosion of thunder, telling me that the thunderstorm was somewhere right above. It was unsettling, but there wasn’t time to worry about it. I didn’t see a lightning flash hit the ground but wondered if there was one up there that had one of our names written on it. The wind kept blowing relentlessly, and the constant gusting made the whole situation seem all the more chaotic. But, where’s the rain, I thought? The Tarryall Mountains needed it. A real downpour might put an end to both the Hayman Fire (Colorado’s largest wildfire ever, up to that point), and the smaller thing that was visibly burning on the nearby mountainside.
If all went as planned, we’d get to our Wind River Range campsite by late afternoon, which would leave us with plenty of daylight for setting up the tents, organizing gear, and even resting a bit before cooking supper. Our backpacks were heavy, but, being mostly young and fit, we’d already covered 10 of the 15 miles planned for the day by lunch. At just a little after 1 o’clock, we crossed Roaring Fork Creek and stopped on the other side to change out of our river shoes and eat our midday meal of tuna, Bolton Biscuits, and gorp. Among other things, the stop also provided a nice break from the uphill grind we’d been on for the past several hours.
Thankfully, we only got a few miles up the Wind River Range’s Middle Fork Trail before stopping to set up our first night’s camp. As it turned out, the whole treble hook situation would’ve been way more complicated had we gone further into the backcountry on that first day.
We called it the “Valley of the Dinosaurs,” mostly because of the humongous rock formations scattered all around. They dominated the remote high valley in Colorado’s Tarryall Mountains with their sheer size. And they breathed a strange sort of life into the area that had convinced me early on that the whole place was somehow on the move. I could never pick out any one thing that caused me to think that—it was more like a general, overwhelming, and deep gut feeling that had me convinced. I was consumed by the place’s pure and simple beauty and sensed the place was more alive than me from the first time I blundered into it. Through the years, I took every opportunity to return. And while the physical cost of getting there was never cheap- without fail, it was always worth it.
Rico, or “Tarzan” as he preferred to be called, hadn’t felt very strong since lunch. His backpack seemed exceedingly heavy, and the big uphill into Pinto Park was yet to come. He’d never been a complainer before and was intent on not becoming one right then. The feeling was new to him, and he wanted to figure out what was going on, so he could keep moving ahead in his accustomed dominant and carefree fashion. Perhaps, he reasoned, his weakness problem had something to do with the creek water he drank at lunch.
He recalled the Strep he had back during the winter and began to wonder if maybe this wasn’t that. But since there was no sore throat, he was pretty sure it wasn’t. “No, this is something different,” he decided.
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