The sky, oh, the sky! A hysterical laugh escapes me, craning my neck towards the bruised beyond. A smooth gradient ends with the sapphire horizon, starkly contrasted by the shimmering gamboge of aspen in their finest fall attire. My plans are rough and my pack is light. I’m perpetually overwhelmed by the possibilities of such a state, so I often leave with little more than a timeframe. ——— Some months earlier, amidst late spring, I contemplated a swelling river notorious for being the lone obstacle between you and alpine elation. I paced back and forth, imagined my eminent hypothermic disappearance and promptly sat in the dirt to celebrate life over handfuls of raisins and almonds. The only threat today is wet feet and shins and I am not about to back down to a game of hopscotch. ——— It’s September 5th and the shifting winds have blown the lingering smoke out of the air. Not to say the fires have subsided, for the west is still burning and I have not yet forgotten it. The smell of a campfire loses its romantic entanglement when it fills your lungs for months. Scrub oak will rule the world! ——— Monsoon season wasn’t that. My legs have taken on a matte beige finish from the subsequent moondust. Slowly veering left off the main thoroughfare, I pass through a large group of men all huddled inside their tents. I say hello to the few with their heads poked out into the world and none reply. How many natural things are as polarizing as the sun? It’s life, it’s death, joy and misery. I give them the benefit of the doubt, as I know how taxing it can be for 14 hours a day. ——— I was warned of the impending climb through dense aspen groves and loose footing. The internet has a way of over-complicating the outdoors. Physically demanding activity that mingles with inconveniences such as bushwacking or unkempt trail almost automatically assumes the title of being heinous, as this trail has been called. Let me list some synonyms of the word heinous. Evil, atrocious, monstrous, disgraceful, shameful. We’re lucky the mountains don’t swallow us whole. Calling our own privilege such words is… heinous. ——— The 6pm sun shines proudly upon the aptly named Jagged Peak. It’s allure is very nearly inescapable. I hastily pitch my tarp and sling my belongings underneath. It has me in it’s grasp. Looks like a sunset is for dinner. Fatigue fades away as I eye the peak next door, Knife Point. I’ve dreamt about it since first seeing it’s near vertical west face and imposing individualistic stature. The east side is a pleasant stroll. I feel my grip on my camera loosen as I step to the top. I wouldn’t have minded dropping it. Numbness in its entirety. I’m just a visitor, but it’s like I’m being let in on a secret. The feeling is rare and I’m glad it is. Complacency is the death of happiness out here. I might have floated back to camp, encased in clementine and rose. I didn’t sleep much, though admiring stars is a good enough reason not to. The neighbors were indifferent. My porcupine pal stopped by twice to nibble on my home and I don’t believe the family of goats stopped once on their racetrack around the tundra. ——— My schedule for today is empty. I dip my bottle, rippling the mirrored surface, drink and think. I take long strides, boulder to boulder, until the brisk air funneling from west to east over the saddle caresses my skin. The sun silhouettes the ridge above as I enter the shade. I miss it already. Snaking through broken granite blocks and quickly back into the sun, the ridge leads me to the summit of Windom Peak, where I join a party of five. Small talk ensues, but I’m easily distracted by the rotting, tightrope of teeth across to Jupiter Mountain. I like to think I know these hills well, though I’ve heard not even a whisper of this line. My schedule is suddenly filled as I say my goodbyes to the breakfast club. ——— If I could recall the minutiae, I would, though some form of sensory deprivation kicks in when the entirety of my attention is needed. I crave this feeling in the mountains. It feels like flowing water. Jupiter Mountain came quick and without incident, except for the micro abrasions on every bit of exposed skin. Granite isn’t soft. I lay under an overhang as my senses became ever louder and treated myself to mashed sweet potatoes while plucking dried thorns out of my hand. Couldn’t tell you where those came from. ——— Surfing and side stepping, buffed out trail appears through the slowly decaying alpine grasses. Down, down, deeper into the air conditioned pit. The closely packed molecules of air create an invisible river. You first feel the chill on your legs as you ease in. ——— Choosing a camp is usually a semi methodic choice, dictated by time, availability and water, though it’s 3pm and I can afford to tour the neighborhood. The stream splits, leaving a piece of prime real estate isolated in the middle. An island? For me?? Grass and pine needle bedding, a log bench created by a past inhabitant, large river rocks to place my butt on and a moat of mountain water. I’ll take it. I don’t particularly enjoy napping, but this seems like the place to do it, so I do. I awake a mear 30 minutes later with new found energy. I use it to read most of Virga & Bone. Is it appropriate to dream of the desert while the mountains have their arms warmly wrapped around me? They must have found out. It’s 6pm, I have goosebumps and too much energy. With a layer of down around my torso and my favorite bleach stained beanie on my head, I leave my island. ——— North to south and back again, the switchbacks straighten out and begin to contour the hillside during the final descent to the main trail. My three human interactions for the day was plenty, so I choose a small nook for the night between two downed aspen and a boulder. Sitting atop my home barefoot, I finish my book just as the big dipper signals bedtime. It’s another warm night. I steep in the calm, knowing there won’t be many more like it with winter approaching. ——— The alpenglow is slow and hazy the next morning. It’s hard to tell what time it is, though it’s light, so I start walking. I begin back down the valley I came from, but the sky remains a washed out sandy shade. My brain feels clogged. Up the final hill and away from the life of the river, the view is swallowed by smoke. Fire season’s last stand. A group on horseback passes by at a pace slower than a walk. Each has their own idea of where it’s coming from. California, Colorado, Colorado, Arizona, California. The west is still burning, but I had forgotten it. ——— I sit against my tire in the dusty parking lot, barefoot again, and stare into the souls of the ponderosa. Do they worry, like I do? Do they wish to unroot and grow wings, like I do? Do they want a hug, like I do?
The saddle and Windom on the left from the morning watering hole
The last half of my line between Windom and Jupiter
