"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"...
"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"...
Beautifully written.
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