snowy range mountains '99

Thursday evening, 9/9/1999

Throwing our packs on our backs for our first backpacking event of the west, we hiked a half mile across a meadow, strewn with ghost-white rocks, pink boulders, scores of wildflowers, and a true sight to behold above us…the Snowy Range. Fish in the lake were literally leaping out of the water, many at a time, pleading me to bring them to the frying pan. Searching quickly in my pack, I noted I had forgotten my fishing rod in the car. The day was dying, so I must run back. So I turned and headed back, but something blood-curdling stopped me frozen. The distinct call of wolves sounded off a mere ½ mile away, and in the direction of the car. The calls were deep, and with purpose, growing closer together and closer to us. We dove in our tents, seeking protection in this remote land, miles from anyone. We crashed early, layering heavily for the imminent cold of mountain night. We listened to the eery howls of the wolves as they moved through. We listened to the distant bellow of bull elk sounding in the distance. And so we settled on a chilling night’s sleep.

The morning sunrise was brought to us unseen in the wilderness, but instead on the mountain range above in deep crimson, with the lake mimicking their colors. Only precious few minutes passed before the glory was gone and the day began in full. How many years has it been since I’ve seen back-to-back sunrises and in turn sunsets? The grayness of the sameness in 11am rise to 11pm work has tainted me. How can I return to that boringness again? How long will it last before I turn once again to the events that bring life to me?