Stolen Moment

May 21, 2009

Hiking by myself today was like a stolen moment. It was something that I’ve always been told not to do—and my better judgment tells me not to do it either. But I did it anyway.  The reward I got for my pains was worth it. There was no one, no one, on the trail. I had the beautiful u-shaped valley bathed in partly-cloudy light all the myself. The ravages of last winter's snowfalls and avalanches have left the slender branches of trees all straining in one direction: down. Boulders and logs litter the ground. Everything is young, delicate green. The wind is warm, with an occasional wisp of alpine, glacial air blowing of the still-melting snow farther up. 

Timpanogas rises before me, like a god. A snake or two slides out of view. I see a dark patch in the trees on the trail below me. Is it a moose? I hope not.
The roar of the waterfall is oddly deafening after so much quiet.

A solitary figure has preceded me to the top. He stands at the top of the waterfall, about 100 yards away. He raises his arm in greeting. I raise my arm back. I sit on a rock to let my racing heart cool down. On the trail back down, the trail is surrounded by growth. Green spills over the edges of the trail like a river bursting its banks. Greening trees arch over the top, like a tunnel. Every green thing is wrapping over and under me, in a kind of open-air coziness, like a giant, green mossy comforter.