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…
Looking out the window
Of the little plane,
As we near our landing site
On the Ruth Glacier.
In the Alaska Range.
First, we flew over trees, rivers, and the lower Glacier.
Now, we’re flying through the Great Gorge
Between startlingly huge mountains
And above the river of ice.
The world is the color of snow, rock, and sky.
A few especially prominent peaks dominate.
Denali, the great one, is straight ahead but not close.
The Moose’s Tooth is to our right but nearby,
Imposing in scale but welcoming.
In the Alaska Range.
Suddenly, we break free of the Gorge
And enter the Ruth Amphitheater.
The venue of venues.
The Cessna turns left
Toward the Mountain House.
We haven’t even landed yet,
But the concert has already begun.
In the Alaska Range.
What do we do, I wonder?
I take a deep breath,
And realize that thankfully we’re not too late,
Because the music never ends.
The sky is clear
And the landing site on the snow vivid.
The closer we get to the ground,
The more massive and magnificent the peaks become.
In the Alaska Range.
The plane touches down and stops.
I open the door and step
Out onto the Ruth.
Warm in my parka
And astounded by what I see in every direction.
There are few people, no instruments,
No conductor,
And not much of an audience.
But I feel the full force of the music
And am compelled
To whisper to myself where all can hear, “Bravo.”
