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.