Control

Whenever I am hiking high on the tundra, I realize how inconsequential I am. Clouds build out of nowhere. Temperatures can swing 20 or 30 degrees and the wind can change from a gentle breeze to whipping gusts. It is out of my control. But the power is tangible. There is no cozy cabin to hide out in during a storm. No grove of trees for seeking refuge. I just have to trust that I am prepared.

Connections

Sometimes when you've spent hours on a trail or miles on a long run, you have a deeper connection to the people around you. What is it that brings this on? All your vulunerabilities are apparent over time. Your conversations are not face to face, but looking out over a shared vista. Does it strip you down to the essence of what is you? I feel as if I have been able to reveal a little bit of my soul to the people that I shepherd up a mountain. And at the same time, glimpse a vision of what they hold inside. It is miraculous.

Shooting Stars and Lilypads

Every time I get up for a sunrise hike, something new and unexpected happens. This morning I woke to a ceiling of stars brighter than I can ever remember. The almost full moon had set, allowing the stars to shine brilliantly for a few hours. On my drive in, I stopped the car so I could gaze up above the highest mountains from the darkest stretch of the road. High peaks outlined in a star-filled sky, adorned by shooting stars. Then onto lilypads catching the first light. Life is good.

Tundra Flowers

Tundra flowers seem to make the most of their environment. The growing season is so short, but the flowers make up for that in pure volume. Every square foot of tundra that is not rock seems to support some plant, and most of them bloom during the same 6 weeks. Alpine avens carpet large areas, but a closer look brings out the moss campion, alpine forget-me-nots, alpine primroses and a host of other miniature blooms. Yet every hike to the tundra highlights the variety of this abundance.

Coffee and watching

One of my favorite morning routines is sipping my coffee on the deck, watching a mother woodpecker feed her baby that is now as big as she is. This is the second summer that I have seen a juvenile peeping from the tree, while the mother flies back and forth to the feeder. She discards a dozen seeds before she finds the right one, then hurries back to the waiting babe. This goes on for almost an hour, as the juvenile is so big, it needs a lot of food. When does she finally teach him how to fend for himself?

Reflections

I've hiked to many lakes this summer, and I seem to have visited most of them on calm days. The reflections have been mirrorlike. An interesting idea. Does nature give us the time and the space to reflect on the rest of our life if we let it?