The Electric Night

The street lamps cut passages of light through the alley and beyond, casting a incandescent glow on the leftovers of the snow. Chunks of white hang like strange constellations and shapes along the branches of the trees. And here the softness of night combines with light and reverie. I can only guess what the shapes in the distance might be or what the scenery looks like during the day. I realize there are many ways of seeing, of recording in the mind what each view can become in time. With the camera and an undeveloped theme, the broad strokes of the darks and lights form islands and seas of shapes; the softness and hardness of the edges become trails in the dark; and the colors vibrating in the electric current of night sinks into my thoughts. It is not enough to click the camera, not enough just to look--for each time I am gathering in another riddle in order to stay fresh and curious. It's like throwing a net of attention over a slippery scene. Just the idea, that this journey keeps unraveling like a twisted thread, with no end in sight, can only mean that "wonder and surprise" are allied to each other during these scattered moments here. Yet too soon, with a thin slice captured on film and eye, these hours will transform themselves into new awakenings. Should I return another day, what I have witnessed here and now will be gone. And then something new will take its place. Sure, there will be the darkness, the electric night, and snowy nights again, but this mood and moment will have passed away.

The Fiery Edge of Day

Dawn, the waking moments when the sky comes alive, when colors expand from blues into yellows, oranges, and reds. The world is great canvas on which the painted sky awakens first before the land. Clouds of wind born forms twist themselves in moods of weather shapes. Then the first flame of the sun rises through the lower trees, lapping at the edges, while the lower clouds move across the air. Above, the windy masses form a wall of bluish-grey. Still the tops of the swamp pines are dark, rising into the colored dawn. At this hour the gentle thoughts are fresh and pure.

Alleyways of the Imagination

Alleyways are places for privacy, far from the busy streets. The hours before dawn are best. Usually the neighbors have left for work, or they stay indoors, hidden away with their secret thoughts. Like them, I too am alone, but outside in the these long corridors, slowly moving under the glow of the street lamps and darkness between. How different is the lighting and the mood in this borderland, this place of moods rather than fact. Perhaps the scenery is suggesting instead of revealing, but I like the ambiguity. This place is a reflection of the human mind--where the public eye seldom looks--with a lock on its doors, open to only those who live here.

The Edge of Afternoon

A thin veil of fog and cloud swept over the hills. In places, the peaks were visible islands rising above the airy sea, distant and untouchable to the eye. I stood on the corner waiting for the light to change. Here, a light wind blew down the avenue, but the sun still had warmth to share. One hour each day I come this way, and today the blues and gentle yellows were in attendance over the land; the sky and sun blended the shadows and light through the trees, onto the hills, and over the streets; and shapes with naked latticework interplayed within themselves.It seemed that trees, both evergreen and deciduous, paired up in spacial dance, weaving the movements of sight into their forms.

I turned back and saw that the light had turned from red to green. Then I dashed back into the mad flow of forgetfulness. At least another moment talked with me in the frenzy of the afternoon, but not to the busy drivers passing through. Sky and Sun serve the seasons well, while the other colors depend on a different time of year.

The Empty Vessel

In Winter's Kingdom the greys subdue all other hues. Still, the city streets bring in colors on traffic flow. And beyond, other curious murmurings can be heard along the trail, here and there-- something of worthy note may be seen.

Through the window shapes, tongues of evergreen meet the snowy hills, and corridors open in the marsh, where once the spaces were filled with greenery. This is the time of emptiness, when the mind might truly see the undergarments of Nature's sleep.

The Winter Palette

The colors of Winter's ground is muted and tonal in its changing display, but reveals colors, that in the Summer season would not call attention to themselves. At first, especially in fog and frost, grey and cold, the eye might not register anything of worthy note. But in the openings or sheltered nooks; out in the marsh or within the woods; and over the ragged teeth of the storm or icy blue of the sky--here are things to ponder and look a little deeper at, because in the the Winter palette some fugitive colors only wait the curious eye to find.

Before the Freeze

Within the valley curve, where wind pours fine dust down its length, the day blossoms with storm. But I feel the shaping of the land by the wind, and see the signatures of Winter drawn upon the ice and snow. But the deeper things are yet to come. Water still pours from distant places, the river still is open, and the ground barely touched by snow. Rather than bitter cold, the inner warmth that hides in the shelter of the hills, feeds the channels that continue to the sea.

I walk out into the middle of the river plain, exposing my face more to the blast of wind and dust. Like a fragile craft on a stormy sea, I angle away from the wind, with sails unfurled but not heading into the full force. Coming back I have the wind to my back. Now I can see the scene ahead-- exposed bars and twisted remains of trees, grey snow in hollows and dead channels-- and study the designs of colored stones and shifting lines written by the wind.

The open window of sunlight shrinks and moves up the Matanuska Valley, up into the headlands of the Talkeetna Mountains, where the glimmering sunlight casts a brief glow over the silent lands now shut up by snow. More dust blurs the outlines of the valley and the short day fades. However, the rivers move in turquoise lines, following the course laid down by the Glacial melting long ago, still melting even in this cold. Come Spring, when the light and warmth grow, I'll be here to cross the river, and hear the voices of awakening.

Frozen Light

This biting cold

Sharp teeth nipping at my hand,

Where sunlight brings no warmth,

As though the air and breath

No longer share or touch--

A shattered Crystal Mirror

And frozen light, when only ice

Settles on the land.

Solitude

I stop and reconsider, whether to go ahead or change course by way of another route. Here in the deep shadows of this ravine, the chill seems to suggest going ahead, moving upwards to the sheltered south-side slope, where the warm sunlight breathes. For up there, the mountain's face is bathed in a yellow glow, still unclothed of snow, and its raptured beauty holds me tight. But I see the faint outlines of a trail which wanders along the cliffs, high above the sunless bottom where now I stand. So, I choose another way instead, noting that the trail has been traveled too many times by other minds, filled with too many memories of crowds and city noise.

I prefer more rugged ground to climb, something that makes me feel more alive, off the trail and into the woodland solitude. Another story waits to be told. And by shaking the fog of sleep from my brain, the old smooth trail is left behind. So, I search for spaces and holes in the brush and dead fall barricades. Above are the steep slopes that stretch across the upper view. But first, the fallen trees become my bridges to the places just below; while the fields of devils club are spaces where secret paths are found; then, with some relief, I reach the blue-grey rocks, which are roads that lead to the high cliff dreams.

And now, on the edge of this bench, high above the bay, I look out far along the vastness of the world with its crystalline hue, exposed to the wind that blurs the view. I am like the tree, solitary and free, that has rooted itself deeply in the rock, not to be shaken by the storms that come at this time of year. We both will survive.

For in this place, within this solitude of thought, I hear and see and know the nameless, unconditioned freedom that this moment brings. I feel what children feel in their playful episodes: not measuring joy or following outworn truths--but singing new songs and enjoying the gift of life, never looking back or worrying for things to come.

Winter's Edge

The water that poured out from the marsh, onto the trail, and had overlaid a part of the pathway there with a silvery-blue coating. Mixed in with the water were twigs and leaves. Then the air cooled overnight. The next day, a thin shell of ice formed on the surface of the overflow, reshaping the forms that were transfixed beneath. A leaf had become like a oyster shell, giving birth to pearls of lustrous bubbles along its graceful curve; the small twigs poked up like trees that had been laid low by a flood; and a broken space, where the thin crust of ice formed a hole, was like a cave where a subterranean river ran, noiseless to the air above-- all as though instrument and music played on the Winter's edge, still undecided which way the weather might go. The next day the ice shapes had retreated, melting back into water, changing mystery into leaves and twigs again there on the wet asphalt trail.

Where Two Rivers Meet

The snow has been delayed across the river plain. Even the heights of the peaks have just a touch. However, this fact is good fortune for me, who now can roam over the huge tract a mile wide. From the bluffs 135 feet above this scene, I look out to the beginnings of the Mckinley Range, and to the smaller hills along its front. The tailings of a glacier are also there, flowing through the rock gates that open to the foothills beneath-- to the flatlands and rivers,and to the sandbars and shipwrecks of wood debris. The cold sunlight spreads over the brittle ice, into the frozen tracks of bears that now have left, and onto the gravel shores of an inland sea, where two rivers pour.

The climb down from the bluffs is a story of gravity. Once you step off the ridge, there is only the feeling of being drawn downwards through the shrubs and trees, and then onto the scarred slope of frozen mud and rock. Usually, the looseness of the piled material yields a foothold to the step; now however, the frozen surface is hard and my boots only skid along downwards. Unscratched, I finally reach the mud hole at the bottom. In this hollowed remains of a vanished stream, tracks are still frozen like some Ice Age catastrophe had swallowed up the beasts. But it won't be me. I circle around and head off for the river. From here, it looks like a thin blue line beneath the hill and opposite shore.

I put on another layer of clothes, covering my hands and head, insulating myself from the wind that blows from the north. Down river the dust kicks up over the open plain. I move more rapidly now. In front of me the ground is varied: with rocks, frozen mud, sand, and matted areas of dried up plants. I keep moving, stepping on the easy ground, and in twenty minutes I am there. The sound of water is more robust and alive at this divide, where two rivers become the meeting place, where rocks and trees and silt combine. In this place, water and land perform a dance, whose steps are the days which begin and end in seasonal change; where after each new flood, the captured remains are swept off until the waters recede once more.

The Way to the Sun

Here, on the edge of a swamp, the first hint of a visual pathway lay across the open area in front. I stopped and stood awhile, wondered how it could be, through all this blankness of grasses and black spruce, that another adventure waited. The earth was half sunk in the muck, but my eyes did not stop to complain. A long row of Cottonwood , strung in colored rows, walled in the land around. And in-between the tree tops and the milky sky, the white painted hills were mostly hidden, and floated calmly on a cushion of air. They seemed lost in soft repose, as though to keep me from wandering there.

Yet, the slow climb to the sky had started. Inside the confusion of the rust red field, through the tall tan grasses, I struggled to find a route. My eyes moved up a bend of a graceful stalk, and danced along its curving top. This lead to a tangled thread of jungle beyond; inside of which, the broken branches and dead tops slowed the movement down. But a climb up through the limbs revealed a window of space. Here, the scene opened up to the hills beyond. I was airborne at last, to breach the wall that had held me fast. The earth bound part of me was left behind.

The sky was bright, and the world was as wide as the imagination could find. The center of interest had changed; this little piece of earth, where the journey had started, was just one of many places to see. For once one way was known, the search for new lines was sure to follow, leading on to altered sights, fresh with mystery. And within the mind, a new beginning had dawned with a question: how far could the mind travel and still return? And where did me and the world begin and end? The ridge was a bridge that angled up and stopped above the valley. From here a opening lead through a pass, before dropping down into the borderlands beyond--my mind had traveled many miles from where the journey had begun, and I had reached a condition of reverie, as though warmed in the heat of a summer sun.

The Bridge of Chance

The Autumn leaves have been freed from their anchorages, to float down or travel by wind to new places. Most of the ground is thick carpeted now. Nearby, a light rain draws circles in the little stream where the flat water becomes a grey-green canvas. And the sky shows through now that the cover is gone. Storm waves toss about on a sea of upper air, dark against the light touches below. But the day has much to share along the leaf-carpeted trail. Down near the stream I venture along its sides, watching the ripples and reflections like some movie show. Three teenagers, black clothed, come by and stand for a moment like me. I wonder what they see, how they feel. But soon they leave. Then I spot a curious sight. A leaf is frozen in space, as thought floating along the side of a tree. What could catch a leaf and hold it in the air? The yellow surface seems so scratched with tiny lines. And behind it, the small white dashes of the birch tree form a background. Then I see the sharp daggered tip of a wooden spear. It holds the leaf suspended. I then know, that even the softness of a leaf can be caught if the conditions are right. These chance encounters are many if looked for carefully. And in looking around, I do find other examples of caught leaves; some have holes that catch upon a small twig or hang in the branches--on things that catch. But the leaf has something else--a small insect wanders over the bridge of stem, making its way to the tree. It has a blue body with orange legs, and a long antennae. I wonder how has it come to be in this quiet woods, that these things have found me? I suppose this is one of those moments where a chance meeting converges into a happening. The surprise delights me, as though I had discovered a rare treasure out here in the rain.

Stepping off the Line

An asphalt trail brings people here, but they never stop to listen. Some are busy chatting or bicycling through; others like shadows carry their sorrows, vanishing around the bend. But I just take my time, eyes lifted to the sky. Then, stepping off the trail, I head off into the grass and black spruce for a better view. "Don't they know,"I thought, "that this day shall never come again or give its treasures to them?"Somehow, an unwritten rule for city people keeps them on the solid ground, because they must feel the woods and fields are places haunted by vagrants and animals. But I suppose I don't mind. The moments are too precious to waste, too fleeting to ignore, so like a bee I gather the honeyed moments from the leftovers of the summer tide.In timeless mystery, the wonders are beheld. And here, the undivided love of life is like a flame, viewed through a narrow window: of the gentle sweep of leaves passing through the air, sparkling in the sun; of the furtive movements of a stream and curling pathways hidden in the grasses; of the crumpled stalks of withered parsnips, whose seeds now lie in sleep upon the ground. Still, I don't mind, because I feel I'm a part of it all, not some intruder lacking eyes to see. Time returns, and the soft-bottomed clouds drifting overhead, blurred in the haze of afternoon, can only pass away, leaving me a gift or two. And in stepping off the line, I find the wholeness more real than the edge of dreams we call our own.

Ripples

Under the Awning of Fall, solitary, with golden streams silently dispatched into space, I walked and shared an hour. Wandering, perhaps I could glimpse a tiny corner of this day, further from human law, outside in the greater Halls, a place where beauty and chance encounters are found. And so, on the side of a tiny stream, inside the leafy screen of yellow and red, the gentle touch of raindrops played upon the flow. I stood awhile, watched as ripples formed, each taking turns in being born. Each successive drop of rain etched new patterns on the flat surface of water. All were different, yet the same in their origin; Inside each ripple's center was quiet, while the waves expanded outwards and then dissolved. Odd assortments of leaves hugged the sides of the bank and the smells of earth was most distinct. Yet all was in a flux, as another season of time had come.

Seeing the Mountain

Tucked in small corners, hidden from the road, the portals of chance sometimes open to inquiry new scenic views. And I had found one of many such places. Rather than using the tourist looking glass, I prefer exploring a place and finding more than just a look. That's right, many people just look, then keep going, never knowing what they've missed. "Oh look, there's Mt. Mckinley! Ok, take a picture quick, because we have to be at the campground ( babysat by Park Hosts) before ten" They usually have a book or pamphlet or slick brochure ( with lots of advertisements); someone has printed a glossy brochure telling the adventure group what to do, what to see, what to think and what to feel. Soon, a whole tribe of followers crashes in to specially developed sites along the highway. They take their city manners and their comfort-loving minds to bag more miles and names of places, only to return unchanged. But the secret really is this: we have to learn to SEE, to FEEL, and to KNOW by our own questioning and sensing and searching; not by going over the same old ground. But people don't have to leave the road to experience the depths of wonder.

They only have to throw out the demands of other voices; ones that live in preconceptions--they have to learn to see like a child again. While fishing for trout one day, I stopped along the river to rest and eat. The magnificence of high peaks and the silty flow of the river loomed up large and real. But as I "looked" about ( I am guilty too!), the attraction suddenly shifted to a tiny window of sight. On the far side of the gold-streaked hills, a range of mountains, barely visible behind a shrinking line of hill, a light blue edge of a glacier had formed in a niche of a mountain. I had not really examined this place before. Since the larger strokes of the McKinley Range shut out the delicate tracings of other less imposing views, not paying deeper attention robbed me of another experience. Soon I was looking closer with my binoculars, glassing from side to side, up and back over the rock faces, cracks, avalanche chutes, furtive hills, and the glacier half hidden in a deeper valley. My eyes wandered, slowed in passing over each new form while weaving together the lines of the ridges, shapes of the foreground all the way back to the upper sky. Soon the effects of light and shadow, as well as the dynamics of rhythms and relationships became a visual dialog. Then I imagined that I was up there looking back to where I now sat. Now way up high or on a glacier below a thousand foot slab, feeling the icy blast of wind, the power of Seeing felt good. My mind took wing, soaring around the basin of glacial time, watching the Past to the Present move like a frame of pictures over the ten thousand years of changes. I became a mountaineer, finding the best line of approach to climb each section of rock. I even built an imaginary road to cross the river, ascend the hills to a higher viewpoint for a better location, then rafted down the river back to where I now sat. This I knew was just the beginning of Seeing. The rest would come with practice, in finding new pathways leading from the obvious to the unknown.

Nebesna Road

Fall Season, a time of passing fancy, of embellished schemes across the land. And here the days pass in shortened bursts, celebrating in festive notes. Even the black gnats, lusting for my blood, feel the coolness settling in. We share the same quickening on this early September afternoon. So the chill wanders through the air, making appetites numb in the sinking of the sun. But still, when looking through the black Spruce fields, down the slopes of shrubs, ringed by yellow sedge, I see the glory shining in the blue lake mirrors. Further out, deeper within shadowed folds, a silver stream murmurs in relief from the heat now gone. Half way in, half way done, along this 40 miles of road, softly plumed by dust, the comings and goings of time are known. On the sides of the valley, the foothills climb to the spired tops of weathered rock, of dark castled walls. And rising even higher, the Wrangel-St. Elias towers steep and still, closer to the sun and glorying longer in its light, exists in a realm few of us will ever know. A moment here contains the world and the fire that burns inside--a season of myself and the road beyond.

The Feeling

Once into the depths of the forest, among the barriers of alder and willows, buried in the grasses and fireweed, the eyes diminish in power to look around. Now, the more primitive senses of hearing and smell and feeling come alive. I slip deeper inside the colors of Fall, dropping down the hill, and moving along a shelf to the bottomland. Here are more shrubs and thick walls of grass; a place of blind struggle for reaching the stream a half-mile away. Still, the sense of tingling awareness grows, where the ooze and smells of rotting leaves reveal the ditches and canals of the beaver dam. I search for a crossing, pushing through the willows and tangled mess beneath my feet. The logs are slippery, old, and half immesed in the swamp, but offer a better way than hip deep in the methane smell of a bog. Beyond is a open area between the fallen cottonwoods and alder runs. But this opening is filled with devils club: they look like a weathered sea of tossing yellow-brown leaves, mounted on grey stalks of thorns, tearing at each step. But after awhile, my body finds the way, moving carefully through less painfull spaces, and finally reaching the stream. On the bank, a lone blue flower peeks through dried leaves; a Mathusela that has lived beyond its peers, who have long since disappeared. At least the openess of the stream with its gravel bars is a welcome sight. And here dead fish are scattered up and down the length and sides. The strong aroma of dead fish attracts birds and insects to the feast. But still I see no sign of bear. Because hunting season is here, the bears perhaps have gone elsewhere, into more hidden places. Meanwhile in the stream, lines of dog and silver salmon, now near death, swim feebly in the current or settle into pools, waiting for the end. One such pool attracts me. It's a deep hole dug out by the constant motion of water from two sides. I think to myself, " This is the place. Here is where the trout will be." I can feel it as I cast out the line and hook into yawning hole. The current takes the spinner to the spot where the trout feeds. The fish strikes, surfaces and jumps. Then I reel it in onto the gravel beach. Now I have my fish and can proceed to the mouth for a look. I start off again, rounding a corner where a couple of hundred yards downstream, where a junction meets, a moose carcass lies in the middle of the stream, washed over by water. Nearby, a raven flies off, wings filled with air and sound, but still no sign of a bear. The carcass can be a danger if a hungry beast is guarding it. I stop, look, listen, smell and wait. Nothing. Then I continue, moving around the corners wide, looking down each long straight-a-way carefully. Now, I come to a narrow run. On both sides a thickness of alder froms a green wall. But I know, just a few feet inside, a bear trail winds down a pathway in the brush. I take this route to avoid making noise. The afternoon is warm now, but the heat of summer is gone, especially when a cloud comes between the sun and land below. However, the golds of leaves and reflected blues of sky makes the chill seem like an accent from a painted scene. I stop and sit on a fallen log to take in the beauty and color of this place. The sound of the water is relaxing to the mind. Even the warmth that comes and goes, the smell of dead fish--mixing like a gourmet recipe of delight-- is a rare dish indeed. Soon the mood changes and I head on down, along turns and shaded pools, until I reach the mouth. Here, the river joins up, pouring a silty mix where both meet. In the wide sweep of the river plain, my eyes can see and feel again the open spaces. The clouds above the mountains, mattress soft, hang rim-lit in the sun, and seem content to pass the hours like contented cows against a blue-meadowed sky. But further south, an ominous strand of fingered clouds, seem to grown in size. I look once more over the silver waters, up the rivers course, and high up into the glacial heights, where rock towers and ribbed sides look small to the naked eye. After a long moment, I put on my pack and gun, and with fishing pole in hand turn back and return to the beaver dam. A feeling passes over me. I see a route through the tangled jungle: fields of ferns in fallen brown heaps, now an open pathway through the bottom land. I move faster now, easing up the slopes, avoiding entanglements. Soon I am back to the road. The day has given me a sense of contentment, of being touched by the elements of water, air, and earth. But still, another crossing of moments remains. Along the road, with the sun angled low to the horizon, a meadow and lake are lit up in with a golden passage of color. I stop. Then, I get out and look out into the distance near the margins of the meadow. Something moves in the grass. The shape grows larger. Then I know, it's a bear. Funny, I think, that most of the day when I was in a place where a bear might be, I have found it by surprise near the road. I watch and click pictures of the final act.

The Circle of Dreams

Human life moves in cycles like the earth, turning to complete itself. I feel these rhythms here on Taylor Mountain. Now, many years later, as I climb up the spongy ground of mosses and over the barren ground, my thoughts are joined by memories and emotions. Above me, the cirrus clouds stream in curving tracks across a washed out sky. Things seem so different now. I was 19 when I first came to the foothills of this place; in its ravines of willow I found flocks of ptarmagan to shoot and kill. They fluttered in the air and landed on nearby rocks, or clucked in nervous agitation along the ground as I sighted down the barrel of my gun. Many birds were taken that day, and I remember that it was Fall time when the land was dressed in bright colors and smelled of sweet decay. My innocence of place and time, not yet burdened by experience, gave me an intensity of being deeply alive. But it was the physical life of instinctual passions that animated the hunt. Thirty-five years later, the maturity of time and experience has extinguished much of the past. Now, the thoughts and moods of youth, once pure and strong, have faded behind a wall of words, caught like birds in a net; the beauty of nature, once felt with unconditioned joy, seems unreal behind the camera's eye. Today, the wind whispers a warning and blows continuously on the ridge, hinting of things to come. A hawk hovers above a pile of rocks, then flits away in search of food. But no ptarmagan can be found. It seems others have been here too. A shotgun shell lies spent on the soft earth. The noon hour sun flattens out the reddish hills, but other than the wind, the land is silent. So I turn, looking outwards to the south, feeling the warmth and chill as one, and know that something has survived the years-- the mystery of that old desire to wander and play in new fields of experience. Far off across the lines of blue hills, mixed in the smoke and haze, a large silvery lake unclaimed, unknown, waits. And the surge of old feelings come alive again. I wonder as I head back, what new riddle, what golden thread, will bring new surprise once I arrive? The link now formed, at first unseen when I was here before, has at last come full circle. On the way down the thought grows more intense--what lies beyond the lake?

The Burn

At the entrance to the Taylor Highway, the road climbs up and over a long ridge. From here the view is one of a blackened landscape; a place where fire has left burnt remains of a spuce forest. The land was once a green cover, but the fire swept through with inferno speed, moving up draws, over ridges, and around hills with a flaming appetite. Still, some tracts of black spurce survived the maelstrom, and remained intact in their sanctuaries of chance. Elsewhere, the spindly remains of charcoalized spruce reveal the naked shapes of the hills and ravines. Such a sight had a terrifying reality for the creatures which once lived here. Even for me, the miles of burnt earth speaks of Nature's power to create and destroy, and pity to those humans who might find themselves trapped on all sides in a raging furnance of flame.

Lost in Thought

"I don't Know." The rangy, lean hiker with a long beard and hair, and wire rimmed glasses, didn't stop. I had asked him a simple question, "where are you going"? The answer seemed to beg different interpretations: either he was trying to blow me off, or a deeper zen-like sleep walk guided him and his son up the trail into some never land. Usually, when I explore new areas, I have a general idea of weather, terrain, and direction. Maybe the hiker didn't even know the name of this place. For me, names are guide posts around which experience gathers, creating connections of awareness for new trips. But I must admit, I don't always go in with a complete plan of action; often times, I just open my thoughts to surprise and discovery. I have found that people and written records aren't always capable of revealing the most relevant features of a mountain climb; they will intepret what was important to themselves. Recently, I had read a trail guide to this hanging valley, but once I got there, the order of facts in the book seemed unreal, as though gotten second hand. But at least I had something for comparison. As I climbed up the slope over the first headwall, a rock-strewn trail cut a path through the talus. The trail finally vanished among the rocks and a wash out. Now, the next thing was to find the saddle and ridge written about in the book . They were there alright, but the writer didn't mention that the path was up a crumbling wall of loose rock, that the glacier had divided into two sections, and that the trek was among rotten remains of blackened dirt and hidden ice beneath. Nearby, also unmentioned, a waterfall spilled out from the cracks below this second section of ice. A steep peak held the glacial remnant in a bowl. Yes, it was a tricky route to the ridge. But today I headed up the other side of the valley, climbed the mountain opposite, to get a glimpse. Here too, the hill was covered by talus. However, it offered an easier climb along its side. Here, a small trail offered easy footing and solid ground. Just above were matted areas of alpine plants, built in levels above one another. The last stretch was loose material that formed the top. I climbed up along this narrow fringe, looking down every once in a while at the vertical drop into the valley below. Not a good place to fall. But at least now, I had a commanding view of the glacier, the valley, the headwall, and the ridge beyond. I could also see far down the larger valley where I had come in; a silvery thread of water wandered along the bottom, weaving a pathway through gouged out rock. On the lower sides, the colors mingled in bright greens, yellows,and reds too. Further down the lenghth, long wisps of fog drifted up, gathering like soft cotton in the air. Still, the afternoon sun blazed across the mountains, onto the glaciers, while trailing clouds threw shadows on the barren rocks of orange and black. I was lost in the moment, and I suppose, if someone was to ask me where I was going or what I was thinking, I would probably reply, "I don't know"...

The Power of First Light

Only a few tracings of cloud in the cool dawn air; the light invades from the east; and I know, for a while, the day will bring color and light to the valleys beyond. As I climb higher, the sense of peace in the quiet outlines of of hills grounds me to the earth. Here, a solitude of thought mixes with the sounds of water rushing downwards to the sea. This exploration of mood, as well as place and time, leads me away from the busy approaches, back into primal yearnings and trackless lands. Staying on a trail only gives the viewpoint of knowns and ways of a thousand other minds; so, I look for cracks and openings that extend the experience of travel into hidden-- yet paradoxically what may be in full view-- channels of perception: a new place, at a different time of day, can change the world into something mysterious and sacred--yes, I seek the sacred ground of morning mist or the golden accents of first light, becoming reunited with the day.

Steam Roller Pass

Steam Roller Pass. What an interesting name. By the end of the day I knew it's meaning well. Climbing up from Clear Creek Valley, 1200' below, required walking up broken piles of rock and loose scree below Clear Glacier. Then, up through the scooped-out gulleys, until the final steep climb, where more shifting pieces of sharp rock waited. The dog knew better than I about how sharp the surface could be, but still I had to know what lay beyond. On maps, Steam Roller Pass was masked by lines of contour, so exacting and flat. In reality, it was anything but that. So, I chose my own way up, not following other people's steps; after all, there is always another way, perhaps better, less draining to walk. One look at that last long hill of broken stone gave me an idea: an easier route on a solid slant, filled by plants, became a pathway upwards . Toward the top of the slope, a flat bench of talus allowed footing across to the Pass. However, sometimes it is easier to go up a mountain than returning by the same way. But, for now I just wanted to see the land beyond. And I wasn't disappointed at what I saw: before me lay the vastness of space, of mountain ranges in long rows, and valleys further below. I stood on a long ledge that stretched for hundreds of yards above a old glacier, mostly melted now, and covered with dirt debris. This dark material spilled out and downwards, filling up into huge mounds. On a flat bench, at a lower level, were half-dozen small lakes, nestled in a matted field of lichens. I noticed too, that the tops of the hills on the western side of the valley were tilted strata of soft, sedimentary rock. But unlike the arid and bare glacial area above, the sides of the lower valley were yellow-greens and tan colors, sprinkled in places with pinks. The contrast was very striking: zones of life and dark fields of rock. I gazed for a long while, losing track of time in a timeless moment, but Afternoon soon brought clouds, which flitted across the valley, breaking up into gentle shapes. And the far ranges, towards the inlet from the sea, now blurred into a soft, blue haze, while a cold wind touched the edges of the Pass. I wrapped the windbreaker tighter about myself. Soon, the rain would be here, and going down is always harder than getting up.

Unseen Trails

The River winds through the steep valley, cutting out soft sides of hill whose oxide tints are layered with rocks put down by ancient waters; a small cut that reveals what lies beneath the garment of vegetation. Along this section of valley, a trail winds between the the alder and light green fields of late summer plants. Further down the hill, the trail connects to a bridge where a gorge of deeply cut rock fashions a chute. Through this gorge, the waters crash downwards to the wide valley below. High above the sounds of water, I stand along an edge of fireweed, watching while I take a moment's rest. But on this south slope my eyes are not the only witness to this scene. Here, the burrows of marmots are exposed to the south side light. They sound a high pitch alarm as I cross the slope. But other things are on my mind. My feet slip on the plants and in places where the crumbling rock from above settles into Scree. Still, I'd rather be here in the stillness of the afternoon, high above the thick foilage along the trail. The trail I take is less disturbed and traveled, unlikely to be walked again in the same way. The experience of this place is a trail of wonder that wanders through my mind.

Castles in the Mist

Deep Space. As I look out from the lip of the Valley, the wide sweep of geological time leaves a vast succession of changes; a space through which the mind may wander through the hallways of time. Here, the atmosphere is more pure, soft and revealing, where the carved hillsides are the naked reminders of ice. Here, the staircases of rock climb toward the sky, and vanish into fine smoke in the distance. The silence is all that remains, along with the wind and gathering mist. Slowly over the rise, the fog is breathed into the upper valley, over the boulder fields, and into the basin beyond. Then, as quickly as it comes, it evaporates in the sun. The land is then lit again with color. But I know another wave of fog will be here soon. And that is fine with me; what brings me to this place is the emptiness and freedom of the hills. But the trails 800 feet below were built for people passing through or in seach of dreams.

The Circle of Return

Now that the Summer Gardens have withered into duller greens, when the airy flights of dragonflies have come to earth, even the little stream seems more asleep. Each succeeding day leads further down the path of change. The air grows cooler and the darkness closes in. First the last blooms of flowers wilted, then the geese gathered on the wing. After that the summer people came no more. And now I walk alone along this little stretch, wondering if the summer heat, when the insects and birds buzzed and sang, was but an outward show. The same power of natural expression--that silences the birds, stills the insects in flight, and brings the flowers to and end--shall color the land as the sleep begins. And what shall be with the little fish that dart and hide under that banks at my approach? The ice of winter shall freeze the water along the edges, and seal up the murmuring sounds of the hidden brook. Then I'll remember the season of these many lives, rising and returning to invisible sources on the circle of return.

At the Edge of Sleep

While in the midst of routine and work, my mind comes back to the country of the hills; places where the mind can breath again. The wonders are many here, ancient and recent, a fullness of time. In the physical exertions of climbing hills, of threading a way through a choked valley of stones, the sense of being alive and one with the world is worth the pain and struggle. Along the way, climbing up and away from the easy path of the trail, new scenes of light are revealed in the heights or in places I've never been. Here, the cliffs frame the glaciers or silvery braids break the monotony of the shadowed cliffs. Each moment is filled with a constant stream of impressions. But what I like the most is the silence in a far flung valley, like a vacuum of strange awareness that cuts a pathway into the mind. Sometimes, after a long walk, I will find a hill overlooking a U-shaped entrance way, and lie down and sleep. During the passing hours the reveries of forgotten memories come back in new form. They play along the edges of sleep, blend in patterns that life could not complete, and echoe outwards into the emptiness. I suppose the solitude provides a catalyst for inner reflection, creates a condition for a time of receptiveness to things that have voices just below the surface of thought. Too much stimulation in the cities, among other people, drowns these delicate growths of awareness. So, I come again and again to regain this state, never knowing how long it will last, but savoring the moments glow when completeness is attained.

Paradise Pass

The Hanging Valley is the second one over, but first I have to cross the grass and stone-cluttered slopes to reach it. So, off again and away from the human trail, into new places to unclutter my mind. First through one valley, over a pile of scree, and along the flowered hill; my goal is to enter the second Hanging Valley, and then climb up to the head of it, where a small glacier sits. Now mostly melted, this glacier, no more than a quarter mile square, is a is melting remnant of the last Ice Age . In its wake, down the the lengthe of the valley, are a piles of rock debris. And over this debris field, I will make my way up to Paradise Pass. Here, at a mile above sea level, the view should be wide in scope. To the west of the Pass is an intersection of two valleys, and another shrinking glacier on the inside corner of them. Once this glacier blocked the way to the other side. On the Map, in the furthest valley, lies Grizzly Bear Lake, the source of North Fork Ship Creek. So, I keep these thoughts in mind, as Pancho, my dog follows me over scree and steep slope. I will be about 800 feet above the trail as I cross over to the lip of Paradise Valley.

Fog. Then a few drops of rain and grayness. The slope becomes slippery as I move through the fields of dying flowers. Then over a talus area, loose and angled; it slows down my pace--take a step, slide and regain balance. Below, the waters of Raven creek and a side creek join at a ford along the main trail. A few tents, in colorful display, are scattered across the this side of the valley. They seem so tiny and insignificant among Glaciers and the tilted hills, not part of the geological plan. I look around at the pyramids of mountains, the abraded shelves without plant cover, and the pathway through the vally, where once miles of ice had filled. And once I reach the entrance of Paradise Valley, I am greeted with other reminders of change: monoliths of stone and deep cuts in the lip where water gushes downwards. Staring up is a rubble field and dark walls of loose, mixed sedimentary rock--something older than the glaciers.

The weight of the pack now slows me down. I feel the straps cutting into my shoulders. And more steep slope and fields of broken, sharp, and angled rock. From the lower part of the valley the glacier remains hidden in a bowl higher up, somewhere near the dark line of the silhouetted Pass, below the notch. I travel as much as I can along the sheep trails that thread their away amongst this damaged ground. Huge ditches have ground their way at angles across the valley, making my travel more circuitous. I spot a rounded hill, now a place of lichens and alpine plants, to guide my way upwards. Still, the barriers of rock become more visible above as I ascend to the last wall of loose material. I step and slide up these mounds, as though nothing solid to get a firm foothold on. Even the sides of the valley is littered with the crumbing tops; the orange and blue streaks of land once beneath the water.

The rock gives way with each step. I angle over and finally step over its rim. The glacier is small, not like the ones in the main valley, smaller than even on the map. Around its bowl the the rock walls are steep. However, a small bench of talus forms around the opposite side of the glacier, angling up to where a slide of loose, smaller rock conneccts by a narrow strip below the Pass. Here is the way to the top. But the hike up will be difficult, not for technical reasons, but because of the weight I am carrying and the looseness of the scree above. The heavy materials have gravitated to the bottom, leaving the smaller pieces in the draw below the Pass. Everything here shifts and tumbles more with each gain of height, 600 feet up. So, I look for larger footholds--plants or bedrock or larger stones--to complete the final steps to the Pass. Barely 7-8 feet wide, The Pass at one mile above sea level provides the view I knew it would. But only for a moment would I see the silver shape of Grizzly Lake. The slope on the other side was steeper, curving downwards at the bottom. Two miles away was the Lake. Between lay aa waste land of dark rock debris, hidden ice below the surface, and a huge mounds of earth opposite the glacier along the curve of the two valleys. To get down meant leaving the heavy pack and looking for a pathway between the drop at the base of the hill. Two miles to the Lake. Another two hours or more to get back. I slid off the pack and opened it up. I took out the coat and unzipped the pocket. Here I put some food and a bottle of juice. If I was to go, I wanted to go light. Down in a snow patch at the base were broken signs of bear tracks. I would need the gun too. But what worried me most was the fog gathering, moving in waves against the hills, and thickening. I wouldn't be able to see the ground ahead near the glacier. The slope offered another problem with the angle near the bottom. However, I had to know the condition of the slope. I slung on the gun and headed downwards. It was nasty and loose. Even the large rocks moved and the steepness offered little hold firmness of step. I angled over to the right, searching for a way around the drop. I found it near one of the edges, but it was loose here near an edge, not something to retrace in the gathering fog. Another day would have to do and I headed back up to the Pass.

Morning Silence

The valley hides the day, and on its silent trails no sounds disturb the peace. But above, the rounded heads of hills are illuminated in the turning of the world. From here,the gushing waters from a high alpine lake become silver strands disappearing into the depths. Then a thin slice of light cuts a line on a ridge, while nearby, the old mine ruins appears in a pool of morning light. In this green pastured, scented scene, the old rusted wheels and cables are hallowed ground. Somewhere on the edges, along the alder brush, an old brown bear wanders through, making his way back up the mountain pathway. He knows well, in the time before the sun, before the heat and crowds, this solitude is a gift for those who are awake.

The Secrets of Time

What is there to know in the far off places except the momentary passing of the seasons, the murmurings of the day, and the direct impressions that play on the skin. The pilgrims passing through are as fleeting as the clouds, unable to endure the emptiness and silence of snow and ice. Off the trail, I sit on an outcrop of smooth rock, and peer into the bright sunlight, up the full length of the shrinking glacier, two miles long. The sides are dark, filled with coverings of dirt and rock, and underneath the hidden holes is an icy grave. Up the valley, and around a darkened shoulder of hill, another frozen road connects a place beyond. What lies on the other side is another empty land of ice. But the ice is thicker and wider across over there. However, for me, it only lives on a map, traveled by others more adept to the way of this land. So, my eye and mind walk a road across this frozen slab, upwards to the highest realms. And in the scale of things, this glacier here is but a tiny piece. The herds of hikers passing through only see the western edge of a greater thing. What they see is a wonder of time, the slowness of change more than any human life. The remnants of a former glory are now leftovers of mud and dirt or the blue calvings at the front of the glacier's snout. Meanwhile, in afternoon sun, I listen to the sounds of the waters beneath the ice, carving out channels into the blue colored caves. Perhaps someday this glacier will be gone, and in its place an alpine meadow of flowers and plants. And we who have traveled here will also be gone.

The Altered Vision

Every Scene suggests new avenues into other places, although this wanderlust scatters my thoughts into fragments of memory. And days truly lived are a mix of design along with surprise. If the rays of early morning soften the mood, or the noon day sun washes out the color, then the effects are known. However, a journey of discovery begins with a departure from formula, when the emotions and methods merge into a new way of seeing. So, I slowly dip my fingers into the waters of surprise, and play along its shores, shaping a course filled with dead ends and possibilities. Maybe that is what thrills me most: what I believe to be true at the beginning changes as I go along, altering into states that require more than just an external eye.