The Mountains of Reveries

They lie there, a cold and pristine sanctuary, where lakes hide inside the hollow spaces beneath the peaks. My eyes dwell there but can't see the hidden things around the corners or beyond. On ridge or top the details are known to those who venture off the trails. When summer returns the colors of meadow flowers, of shrubbery and trees, shall once again paint the scenery there. And I imagine I'll be also upon the alpine carpet and talus slopes, gathering height to see further and beyond what I've seen today. So I find a way to travel, to know and feel, what new glory waits inside the Mountains of Reverie.

The Hidden Order

The hidden order likes to echo in shapes and forms. Curves and lines combine to give variety in trees and stream beds. The bent and dried stalks of cow parsnips bend to make triangles in the snow. Then on sunny days the shadows describe the forms in shadowed lines, running along the surfaces, into cracks like piano keys, playing with intervals of visual music. The eye takes in these sights, but the objects only blind the mind to the relationships--where the deeper voice is heard.

The Call of the Geese

High above the roof tops, against the very sky itself, a long thread of geese fly north across the city. How uncanny, I thought, how a large number of birds could keep this line intact. A deeper force of Nature holds them to a pattern, guiding them over mountains and open gulfs, on a long distance journey back to their birth places. I hear the call of the geese as the days roll into the faint beginnings of summer. Some things in this world are not tied to human will, but serve a higher power that is linked to the ages, moving in cycles and the turning of the world.

The Highway North

I cruise north on the road, heading back from a day by the sea. The white lines of the road sharply vanish down a narrow view of perspective. Above, in a blue lake of sky, a group of clouds drift in a lazy line. It's Saturday. Ahead of me lies only empty pavement. A few cars pass. So I too, like the clouds drift in thought as I move along the asphalt track, lost in reverie, or just gazing at the scenes that come along as I move north.

But the fact remains--I am alone with myself, here and now along the road going north. Others, who ever they may be, will come here later, when the summer sun is higher in the sky. Crowds of drivers cannot be found today. I feel lucky at my fate, not being rushed or pressured to move along. This is an opening when the road and hills and sky belong to the few.

The empty spaces

I was in motion, roaming, soaking up the sun on a early Spring day. The thing that seems so special at this time of year is the glare. Without the snow and ice, I suppose this effect would be lessened in the mind. In any case, I had no plan or particular direction to go. I just walked along the perimeter of the city, away from the noise. Soon I cam to the lake that was fronted by condominiums on one side, while a dark hill to the south, the High School. The lake was mostly a slushy surface, like ice creme. So I moved along, passing lawyers jogging, talking about their briefs, and moving aside for women Walking their dogs. Soon I was near where a lake emptied into the bay.

Here I found an open stretch of water, just off from shore. Nature does not always work in lines, but melts in geometrical fashion, and in curves. I found there an S-Curved shape of openness. It seemed to wander into the icy flatness of the lake. Why? I do not know, but the beauty of curving paths makes a shapely picture. Up in the S-shaped pathway two ducks found a place of solitude. Here they rested, protected from people's dogs and close intrusion. I watched awhile and wondered. People passed in disinterested groups, too busy, running or talking on cell phones.

Unlike the ducks, most of the runners,walkers, talkers weren't aware of the world about them. They didn't stop to watch or reflect--too busy with schedules and cares. Even five minutes would have made them see the wonders that lay all about them. They would have seen the clouds, brilliant and penetrated by the sun, forming and dissolving in a few minutes time. They would have seen the young mother playing with her 15 month baby girl;if they had bothered to stop and inquire. This seemed strange to me, that all these runners, walkers, and talkers sped along under a Spring sky, so oblivious to what begged their attention. They were strangers to all this, and strangers to others, but more so, they were trapped in a S-curve of time, down which they wandered.

The view from the rocks

Two hours of climbing, angles steep along a narrow line of rock, with lichens and dead grass, but at last I made it to the top. The view of the bay on a Sunday afternoon breaks the tension of thinking about the next day, returning to the cycles of work. For a brief moment my mind is free from the grip of obligations, of demands, of human time.

For now, I reveled in the stark beauty of the mountain, a single speck against the white cover, or hidden among the cliffs and sheep trail, which wound upwards to a pass high above the bay. The ground had thawed; the snow cover was still thin of hardness, but I wanted to see the greater scenes that only the heights can bring. Going up was easy. Coming down was a different thing.

At the top I found a bare rock to sit upon, like a island among the white, pulled out my water and drank to my thirst. The taste was sweet. My eyes roved over the bay and mountains and through out the sky from near to far, wandering as far as they could see. The chill in the air cooled my sweat while I sat in wonder. The cold brightness combined with the wind, yet I stayed a bit longer to feel the afternoon, a be a part of something bigger. Then it was time to go.

A steep snow slope curved downwards to the lower cliffs; in some places ( along the sides or where the sun warmed the slope at 45 degrees) hard enough to walk upon. The long stretch of snow would save me wear and tear. The lichens and dead grasses were slippery, while the loose rock meant spills or needless struggle. I needed a plan. In order not to sink in the less crusted areas, where the hill sloped away from the south-side sun, I elected to slide down using my heels as brakes. In the flatter areas, I could walk in the shallower snow, avoiding the slippery rocks and plants. I saw a place where someone else decided to the snow, but had stopped because they had lacked a plan.

Hundreds of yards of white slope waited my slide. I punched through a few areas to get to a open area, lowered myself onto the snow, and slid down....among the shrubbery and clustered islands of trees, picking up speed as I slid. Small pieces of ice rolled down ahead of me, tumbling

over edges. Soon I was among the trees below, having to slow down and weave a pathway between them. Sometimes it is better to take a risk of lesser degree than the normal approach, guaranteed to inflict some bruises by the nature of the terrain. Besides, I had saved myself a lot of time to enjoy the rest of the day.

The Coming of Spring

When the Sun shines through the woods, where the stands of birch cluster or spread, the dance of light and shadow creates small windows of surprise. Each narrow view is like a long corridor, leading the eye along a vertical view. For most people, the trees merely block the eye from seeing the places beyond. But for me,a hundred windows can be peeked through with different results: a lonely twig which gracefully accepts its place among the trees;a sinuous line of shadow disclosing the rolling form of the hill; and even the circles of melting snow are shapes that connect the many lines across the snow. Each passing day brings new things, new effects--and so I see a natural drama unfold, like waves that crest,but seldom repeating themselves in the coming of Spring.