It was a hike a few years ago, but now it seems like a lot longer. It wasn’t just hard walking, it was climbing and clinging and grabbing as I ascended a steep nearly verticle path.
It was an intermittent misty and rainy day with a cool ambiance that more refreshed than chilled. Fog drifted up the climbing ledges in gossamer wafts of white and gray as the rain coated and washed the ascending trail into a slippery challenge. Granite boulders, some the size of houses, festooned the path as I crawled, slid and climbed through rocky cuts, tiny cave like openings and up and down in rough rocky cuts and chimney climbs.
I loved the purity of the climb. The rain kept all other hikers, but one, from the slippery rocks and pine needle puddles and so it was just nature and me. Pristine and primal with occasional surprising vistas of the cliffs and lake below bursting through framed granite and conifer sculptures.
It was renewing and inspiring, and an experience filled with a fragrant ceremony for the eastern mountain laurel was in full bloom. Each pink and white blossom celebrated, not only with the mist of the day but with seeming appreciation of just being the beauty it was.
I met a weasel who acknowledged my encroachment upon his home and path and a tiny wild Finch who stayed much longer than expected singing on a branch not more than two feet away from my still and silent watch.
It was a glorious day.
When I got home and read the newspaper headlines I wondered, what are we doing to ourselves?