I like getting lost, taking long Sunday drives down twisted roads to see where they will lead. I've discovered small mining towns with Rocky Mountain names like Pine Junction and populations less than the number of homes on my block. I've stumbled upon Coney Island hotdog stands parked near raging mountain rivers, and zip-lines that transport screaming tourists through evergreen treetops.
I often stop to explore what these areas have to offer: rhubarb pie judging contests, inlets for tubing down streams, or trails I had yet to find. Which is how I came across one of my favorite hiking spots for clearing the head. Places like this, where the mind can open and wander, are diamonds in the rough for me and I cherish them deeply. Although not all my thinking spots are out in nature, I also have a patio near a lake I love to sit and people watch, I do find myself more refreshed after a day out in the woods.
I don't always hike this trail to think, it turns out to be a pretty awesome workout as well (though it is only a five mile loop, the first half is straight up). However, some days - like yesterday- call for complete introspection, and I find my boots hitting dirt and my face gazing up the tangled path.
I often stop to explore what these areas have to offer: rhubarb pie judging contests, inlets for tubing down streams, or trails I had yet to find. Which is how I came across one of my favorite hiking spots for clearing the head. Places like this, where the mind can open and wander, are diamonds in the rough for me and I cherish them deeply. Although not all my thinking spots are out in nature, I also have a patio near a lake I love to sit and people watch, I do find myself more refreshed after a day out in the woods.
I don't always hike this trail to think, it turns out to be a pretty awesome workout as well (though it is only a five mile loop, the first half is straight up). However, some days - like yesterday- call for complete introspection, and I find my boots hitting dirt and my face gazing up the tangled path.
SUNDAY:
The towering ponderosas crack open in the heat of spring, oozing sap that stains the passing wind with a hint of vanilla. The overcast sky shadows the trail enough to keep the treeless sections cool on skin that is already starting to dew from exertion.
The path itself leads straight up to the sky and hiking it I feel the surge of possibilities vibrate through me, muscles straining to put one foot in front of the other. My thoughts are free to take flight as I climb. Breathing is labored in the thinning air, daydreams pour into my mind filling it to the bring and I am certain that anything is possible, that if I keep walking I'll pass through the clouds and touch the stars.
Sprouting shoots of sage line the path, I pick some and crush the leaves between my fingers. Bees dance a top flowers growing on wild cactus, while leaves shimmy in the whispering breeze. I like the sound of the wind as it sways branches. My mind clears further as I look out at the distance, peak after peak breaking the straight line of the horizon as they pierce the hazy sky.
The journey up this path was solitary, I run into only a few hikers all going the other direction, and I idly wonder if I'm taking the "wrong" way up this loop. The idea of that makes me smile almost as much as the quiet does, it would be like me to swim upstream when everyone else was going down it. Only the crunch of pebbles under my well worn hiking boots, and the occasional far off bark of a dog somewhere on the trail, interrupt the symphony of nature.
The towering ponderosas crack open in the heat of spring, oozing sap that stains the passing wind with a hint of vanilla. The overcast sky shadows the trail enough to keep the treeless sections cool on skin that is already starting to dew from exertion.
The path itself leads straight up to the sky and hiking it I feel the surge of possibilities vibrate through me, muscles straining to put one foot in front of the other. My thoughts are free to take flight as I climb. Breathing is labored in the thinning air, daydreams pour into my mind filling it to the bring and I am certain that anything is possible, that if I keep walking I'll pass through the clouds and touch the stars.
Sprouting shoots of sage line the path, I pick some and crush the leaves between my fingers. Bees dance a top flowers growing on wild cactus, while leaves shimmy in the whispering breeze. I like the sound of the wind as it sways branches. My mind clears further as I look out at the distance, peak after peak breaking the straight line of the horizon as they pierce the hazy sky.
The journey up this path was solitary, I run into only a few hikers all going the other direction, and I idly wonder if I'm taking the "wrong" way up this loop. The idea of that makes me smile almost as much as the quiet does, it would be like me to swim upstream when everyone else was going down it. Only the crunch of pebbles under my well worn hiking boots, and the occasional far off bark of a dog somewhere on the trail, interrupt the symphony of nature.
It doesn't take long to reach the top, a flattened section of the hill over looking southern Colorado. The clouds hang so low, pregnant with the threat of rain, that I wonder if I reached up if I would be able to poke holes in their pillowy surfaces and let the moisture out. The tempest increases, blowing my flannel out around me like a tethered kit begging to be free.
I never really considered myself a superstitious person until I lived in Italy. One hot summer day in Venice my roommate declared me one of the most superstitious people she had ever met and I realized for the first time how many little "traditions" I stick to. I cross my fingers and touch glass when going over railroad tracks, I "hold" up the ceiling of the car when going through tunnels, I light candles in churches around the world for my Father, and make wishes in wishing wells....
Standing at the precipice of the peak I take a pinecone in hand, set an intention and tossed it into the waiting wind. It blows down hill and disappears from sight in the grove of pines climbing the sides of the mountain. They stand like waiting soldiers, taking centuries to storm the top completely. Like the mighty ponderosas they are destined to become, Colorado pinecones are said to be good luck to those who are brave enough to wish on them.
I've always considered myself brave.
The hike down is snaked by the lone stream that cuts through the mountain side. Spring snows fill it's shallows with flowing water that over comes some sections of the trail. I bounce across stones set in it's bed by other hikers. Some crossings I dare to leap from bank to bank. Getting a running start and placing my arms out wide like makeshift rudders to help control my fall. Mostly I giggle... which I find impossible not to do when hopping past budding raspberry bushes. In two months I will come back to pick the little berries with the birds.
I end the hike physically where I started, but with dirtier feet, wind blown hair, and a heart full of warm thoughts for the future.
Driving away I think back on how many pinecones I've tossed into the woods with the best intentions. Eyes traveling out at the sea of pines around me I hope that one or two new Ponderosas were started when I tossed my wishes into the wind.
I never really considered myself a superstitious person until I lived in Italy. One hot summer day in Venice my roommate declared me one of the most superstitious people she had ever met and I realized for the first time how many little "traditions" I stick to. I cross my fingers and touch glass when going over railroad tracks, I "hold" up the ceiling of the car when going through tunnels, I light candles in churches around the world for my Father, and make wishes in wishing wells....
Standing at the precipice of the peak I take a pinecone in hand, set an intention and tossed it into the waiting wind. It blows down hill and disappears from sight in the grove of pines climbing the sides of the mountain. They stand like waiting soldiers, taking centuries to storm the top completely. Like the mighty ponderosas they are destined to become, Colorado pinecones are said to be good luck to those who are brave enough to wish on them.
I've always considered myself brave.
The hike down is snaked by the lone stream that cuts through the mountain side. Spring snows fill it's shallows with flowing water that over comes some sections of the trail. I bounce across stones set in it's bed by other hikers. Some crossings I dare to leap from bank to bank. Getting a running start and placing my arms out wide like makeshift rudders to help control my fall. Mostly I giggle... which I find impossible not to do when hopping past budding raspberry bushes. In two months I will come back to pick the little berries with the birds.
I end the hike physically where I started, but with dirtier feet, wind blown hair, and a heart full of warm thoughts for the future.
Driving away I think back on how many pinecones I've tossed into the woods with the best intentions. Eyes traveling out at the sea of pines around me I hope that one or two new Ponderosas were started when I tossed my wishes into the wind.
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