Raindrops pounding my tent,
They sound like thunderous applause,
Every time the wind gusts,
And throws them in bunches
Against the fly.
Lightning flashes remind me
Of other power surges.
Thin sheets of nylon
Are all that shield me
From the wet and chaos.
But all is well,
Because the dome protecting me
Is well anchored.
And I am warm and dry,
Zipped-up inside it.
I’m getting sleepy,
Even though it’s only 4:00 in the afternoon.
It’s good to be
Settled into my sleeping bag,
Just as the music begins.
I close my eyes and listen.
As the Rain Symphony gets underway.
I’m intent on absorbing its every nuance.
The subtle pauses, the crescendos,
The somber moments, the tempo changes.
Have I heard this one before, I wonder?
Some parts sound familiar.
But I know better.
Because every Rain Symphony is unique.
Each performance only happens once.
There will be other concerts
That are nearly,
But not quite,
The same.
Each is composed of
Familiar and comfortable sounds,
Blended with surprise.
Like always, the music is spectacular.
Contentedly,
I let my mind wander,
And begin to dream.
Rumbling rivers, creeks, and streams.
Water left pure,
From the moment it falls
On the Continental Divide, as rain or snow,
And begins its journey
Down to the oceans.
Some of it goes into the ground.
Some fills my cup.
Some provides the Brook Trout a place to live.
Some gives the Spruces a drink.
Some makes wallows for the elk.
Some creates glaciers.
And some goes back into the sky and falls again.
Up here, the water is guarded for a while,
By the Winds,
The Wind River Mountains that is.
The range of mountains is inhospitable to some,
But beckoning to others.
The place is too rough for roads,
But covered with paths.
People go there,
To hike, fish, climb, camp,
Meander, sit, ponder, and dream.
But few remain–
There are other places
Better suited to
Building, driving, using, living,
And staying.
Besides,
Protecting the water
Is a full time job.
The mountains, forest,
Creeks, and meadows,
Are left free to do
What they do best.
And they do it well.
The water will move on
And nourish the flatlands.
It’ll irrigate corn, bathe babies,
Water lawns, and get purified
For drinking.
One way or another, the water will change
Once it flows beyond
The protection of the Winds–
For better or worse.
But up in this neck of the woods,
All is well for a time.
And the water is clear
Thanks to Pingora, Gannett, and Fremont.
Dinwoody, Lizard Head,
Desolation, and The Sphinx.
Washakie Pass, Titcomb Basin,
Dickinson Park, and The Cirque of the Towers.
Popo Agie River, Deep Creek Lakes,
Mitchell Peak, and Wolf’s Head.
Stough Creek, Three Fork’s Park, Wind River Peak,
And so many more…
The sun goes down
And once again
The nightly spectacle begins.
The stars begin arriving early.
But wait!
The bright light of the full moon
Is overwhelming
The masterpiece of the skies.
It makes everything else invisible to the eye.
But thankfully, like always,
The situation is only temporary.
And the show will go on.
So, for the moment, I relish the things I do see.
I stretch out in my sleeping bag
In an open meadow and look up.
I stay awake
Long enough to
See the moon set.
The temperature is dropping,
But my sleeping bag
Is made for that.
So, I warmly
Look up as the stars
Begin to take control.
And I imagine.
The afternoon’s storm
Has long passed
And cleaned the air.
The night is brilliantly clear.
And suddenly,
The Milky Way
Shows up in all its glory.
To the south,
The constellations of the Zodiac
Are on the march.
One of them,
Scorpio, Scorpius– the Scorpion, is particularly obvious.
At least for the moment.
But it’ll soon disappear into the horizon.
Because it always does.
For me, it’s the constellation of summer,
And adds to my warmth.
But it also makes me think of Orion,
My constellation of winter.
Though unseen,
The thought of it sends a chill to my feet.
Almost overhead,
Mars casts its red light
In untwinkling brilliance.
The untwinkling part is proof that it’s a planet.
I scan the sky for another planet.
But everything is twinkling.
Points of light are everywhere,
Inundating my senses.
My eyes are full of stars and galaxies.
But what of the millions
That are there, but beyond
What I can see.
And then, the fog begins to roll in.
Think fast before it fully arrives, I conclude.
Did my Kentucky great, great grandparents
Look up at the same sky, I wonder?
Is their vision of what they saw floating around out there in space?
Is a vision a concrete thing?
How far away can anything go?
The questions begin to accumulate.
Will they be answered before
The clouds takeover?
Then suddenly, I arrive at a non-answer
As I decide to figure it out later.
And the sky goes dark
As I drift off to sleep.
Tender, kindling, fuel
Dry grass, sticks and logs.
Combined,
Then set afire.
Suddenly, there’s
Light, heat, and movement.
A whole new world
Is born.
A thing to stand around,
A reason to pull up a log and sit,
Something to stare into,
Reach your hands toward,
And turn your back to.
And always,
The smoke follows beauty.
And then,
A tale is told.
Which leads to another
And another.
Flames come and go
They ebb and flow.
Roaring, crackling.
Simmering, and flickering.
Embers, coals.
Constant change.
So much to see,
A lot to hear.
Things to say.
Stare, think, and gaze.
One fire is never like another,
Except that it is.
It was an early November Sunday during my slow part of the year. Autumn in Colorado’s Tarryall Mountains is spectacular. In late September, the Aspen trees turn gold, and warm sunny days are interrupted only by winter’s occasional and temporary arrival. But as fall gives way to winter, winter visits become more prolonged and more frequent. Over many years, early November is still a pleasant time to be there, weatherwise, with little to no snowpack and warm days that create almost ideal conditions for mountain biking, hiking, and climbing area peaks. But this particular year, I spent my days occupied with the aftermath of the OWA base camp lodge burning down, not with recreation. Instead of the comforts of my private lodge bedroom and bath, I was sharing an old one-room log cabin with an 18-year-old intern, Lee, and doing little besides cleanup and prep for new construction. On the day in question, I was piddling around the job site doing various chores. Since it was an off day, Lee asked if he could go on a straightforward, leisurely hike toward Bison Peak. I considered that he’d previously participated in several backcountry trips with my outdoor program. And since there was nothing for him to work on that afternoon, it seemed reasonable. And so, I gave him my blessing.
The various names that are attached to places are intriguing. Some are obvious since they either reflect a physical characteristic or commemorate an individual of importance. But, others not quite so. Many place names tell a story in a few short words—some less straightforward than others, but each worthy of knowing. Here’s a few such stories that I’ve heard. Listen, and maybe you will, too………………..
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