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.
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.
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