On the Trail—Wildflowers and Other Inspiration Found There
The afternoon is waning, and the sunshine is filtered by a cloudy sky. But the trail is calling, and I can’t resist. I stuff my water bottle and a water-repellent jacket into my day pack and start walking.
It’s not the time to start a hike, obviously. This high in the mountains, I should start in the morning so I can be off the mountainside by the time the rains come. Rain could mean lightning, and I don’t like lightning up close and personal the way it is this high on the mountain. But the clouds aren’t typical of thunderstorms, and I won’t be going far. Besides, there were other important things to do this morning.
I tell my husband when to expect me back, and set out.
The creek is lined with bright green willows, grass, and wild rose bushes. I can smell the roses, even though there aren’t many blossoms on the bushes near our camp. The bushes themselves infuse the evening air with sweetness.
The woods are not quiet, really. The creek tumbles over the rocks, birds call back and forth, and the evening breeze hums in the pines like a bass violin. Aspen leaves flutter.
A woodpecker scurries up the side of a pine as though he’s one of the squirrels we had at our camp this morning. Even with his stunning black and white feathers and deep red crest, he’s soon out of sight, lost among the branches.
I start across an avalanche chute to catch a stretch of the Colorado trail that I love. Stumps stick out of the ground like splintered wooden blossoms, and debris is strewn across the entire chute—evidence of the destruction left by an avalanche a few years ago. Stepping carefully over and around the broken scraps of trees that are still there, I’m once again humbled. I can’t really fathom a force so powerful it can break live trees like this, clearing a swath down the side of one slope and starting up the mountain on the other side of the creek.
There she goes again—Nature. Dwarfing me.
I catch the trail and cross the creek. Logs—some silvered from the water and some with scraps of bark still hanging in shreds—are caught like ragged, giant-sized matchsticks across the creek bed. The sound of the water straining through and over the logs is deafening.
But the logs slow the water, forming pools. The fish will like it there.
I start across an older avalanche chute and have to stop, pull out my phone, wait for the focus to adjust, and take the picture.
Wildflowers are everywhere! Brilliant red columbine flash against the bright green of new aspen growth and rose bushes. There are sweet Colorado blue columbine in their gentle blue and white. Soft pink wild geranium and wild roses.
There are other flowers, too, yellow clusters and furry-stemmed white ones whose names I don’t know.
I can appreciate their beauty without knowing their names. Labels aren’t necessary on the trail.
I pause for a moment, kneeling among the blossoms, snapping shot after shot of the flowers from multiple angles. Zooming in. And zooming out again. Which view is better? Close up or big picture? It’s hard to know which is more beautiful.
Keep them both.
Nature, constantly re-creating, filling the site of destruction with new growth and indescribable beauty. Peace.
I continue up the slope and around the bend. The roar of the water is still loud, but not as sharp. It’s dulled by the bend in the trail.
I venture off the trail a few feet to follow a spur. Many other feet have done the same—the ground is worn bare here. It leads to a fallen tree with tangled roots as intricate as a Celtic knot. I step closer and try to frame a shot with the camera on my phone.
Then I glance up the valley.
The view fills my screen and overflows my soul.
My feet are rooted, and I breathe deep. I might be happy to stay in this spot until the winds no longer blow and the creeks have ceased their tumult.
But my hour is nearly up, and the trail ahead still beckons with intrigue. Curiosity wins over peace, again, and I return to the trail to get as far as I can before I have to return.
I love to hike with my friends, but sometimes, sometimes, the trail is mine to walk alone. Those are the times it speaks the loudest.
Or maybe those are the times I’m actually listening.
So often I’ve viewed my life as a path, a journey. A cliche, certainly, but the symbol resonates. As I mark the absolute farthest I can go before I need to head back, I’m reminded of the truths it showed me today:
Some would say it’s foolish to start out this late in the day—night is not far off. I can let that keep me from setting out, or I can just start and see how far I get, enjoying the sights and the challenges I encounter along the way.
Conditions aren’t perfect, but they’re good enough, and I have the experience to know how to deal with what might come.
Disasters happen. Forces we have no power over can sweep through our world and demolish what stood so strong and beautiful moments before. In due time, new growth will come, and the beauty that blossoms in disaster's wake can be healthier and more vibrant than what was there before.
Sometimes I have to leave the track and look up to see the beauty that surrounds me. It’s enough to fill my soul and surpass anything I can imagine on my own.
Although I am tempted to stop, to just dwell in the place others have led me to, there will always be that voice, calling me onward, to see what awaits around the corner.
Ready to join me?
What path are you walking?
What do you hope to find? What have you found so far?
Share with us in the comments box below.
