Old Sawtooth

Yesterday, I hiked up a high mountain path, new to me, I walked alone, in the still, in the thrill, in the quiet, in a deep forest, in a wild, where I thrive, where I am most aware I am alive. I didn’t start with a destination in mind, didn’t know how far I would go, didn’t need to know, but I hiked hoping to reach a mountain view. I began to feel a sense of urgency to reach that view, to reach it before I had gone as far as I could go. Then two hours in, on a bend in the path, I passed a blue spruce tree as I emerged from forest to meadow and there rising to the sky in front of me, was old Mount Sawtooth and in that moment too, I saw my truth, my deep desire to connect with wild nature, alone, observing and listening. After an hour of silence with the mountain in view I knew it was time to turn back, continue my journey, now with no sense of hurry,  just meandering down a path through a forest of spruce and fir and moss, summer hanging by a harebell, stopping to say hello to a little squirrel I called Boo, connecting, feeling satisfied, gratified, walking with some ache in my body at 71, observing how the conifer needles were being touched by the sunlight, listening to the sound of the river’s flow and hearing an invitation to return when aspen leaves glow or in snow falling, when my truth, once again, is calling.