There is nothing unique, or even particularly exciting about pointing out spring colors, about relishing in the hues of this most lovely season. Since poets and artists and storytellers began their craft at the dawn of humanity, we have remarked on the blossoms and bird songs, the renewed buzz of life, the epiphany of emergence. And yet our redundancy returns every year.
But how could it not? The earth never seizes to amaze, beauty abounds.
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Photos are intriguing: they can capture so much. But when I look back on these images decades from now, will I remember the important details happening behind and around each photo? The call of the meadowlark as the grass stirs and whispers … Continue reading
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Quite certainly frozen in its moment, rocks and trees and plants and waters stand still. Organized in such a way to catch the attention of the methodical walker. Patterns and lines, color and light, halt our steps, lock our eyes, spur … Continue reading
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After the cold air subsides, or at least warms up slightly, there’s that moment of getting out the door. We chase the sun, or the light, or just the fresh air that comes with every storm. Nothing is uncommon, the lake … Continue reading
I wonder today, as I often do, about the never-ending quest for the known locations. The ways we strive for the famous spots. And the degradation of their dramatic beauty as we tromp across the little space that’s left well beyond capacity.
And yet so much stunning landscape exists just off the quiet highway between an indistinct small town with local rodeo heroes, and another one not remembered for much of anything. Just a few miles down a dirt road, entire stories of wild and fierce granitic landscapes, bold splashes of fall color painted by Gambel Oaks, Autumn Blaze Maples, and the red-hued fall grasses, show off whether we are there to witness it or not. The solitude of one loan junco working its way from branch to branch, does not need to be broken by our footsteps.
But I count myself lucky to have been here today, October 14th, 2023, a day of the ring of fire eclipse, to bare testimony of these oaks and maples and monoliths, to breathe in a pause, exhale a moment of gratitude, and exclaim, beauty is all around.
I dare myself to follow the indistinct path that runs along the fence line at the back of the viewpoint. The fence keeps me from going farther into the open space, but at least there is some natural reprieve from the grind of the asphalt interstate. And then there, as if purposely placed for those having these thoughts, is a rather solid and well thought out ladder, ascending over the barbed-wire, and descending into the great wild. I’ve been to this viewpoint a dozen times, raced down this highway towards home several times more than that, and yet I never knew of this ladder and what was to be revealed beyond.
I dare myself to climb up and down the ladder. Over the otherwise impassable fence, and escape the rutted humdrum of my own travels. Off into the great expanse I wander, carefully placing footprints on solid sandstone instead of the crust of living soil. Following the old remains of flood channels. And over small rock caves surrounded by pinyon cones, foraged and gathered by local chipmunks. Until I arrive at a hill, desert pavement tilted at 30 degrees.
I dare myself to scramble up the talus. Though it looks like it might slide, it stays in place for the moment, shifting from hues of dusty gray to the brilliant reds and browns known here, into a band of dark white, ubiquitous here as well. And then across a mid-cliff pathway, almost a trail built by the same geologic forces that provide the macro beauty for which this viewpoint was built to admire.
I dare myself to walk along this path. And there as it comes to the cliff’s edge, is the real viewpoint. Not the one I have seen so often, the one I gaze at from inside my car as I enjoy it briefly before racing off again at 80 mph. This view point is higher by 30 or so feet, the road descending almost out of view, the horizon that much farther away. The solitude obvious.
Pull over, walk the path, climb the ladder, ascend the hill, wander down another path.
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The park across the street, tucked up against a major interstate, used heavily for organized recreation, dog walking, and playground fun, never ceases to amaze me with the unfolding of nature season after season. Gratitude to the park manager and … Continue reading
In contrast to newness, many, many places feel familiar. Vistas and view points, places to sit and contemplate, places to hide from crowds on certain days of the week, trees and streams that glisten in the right light for your attention. Visiting in all seasons, I can take my imagination there and make an educated visualization about what might be happening. I can see that elk herd I tracked once across the hillside, only to finding the whole herd stopping its grazing to stare at me carefully. I can taste the water from the near-by spring where I filled my bottle up numerous times as a kid. I can hear the particular sound the wind makes, moving across pine needles, whether it might be the mighty Ponderosas or the gentle Juniper. I feel fulfilled knowing that I might know what’s around the next bend on a particular trail, and I can look forward to there, to pause in that softness of coming home.
Newness. Familiar. I’ll take both.
So much has already been said about clouds. And how could it not be so? So often around us.
Always changing, shifting, moving. Offering patterns and shapes to the sky, ripples and refractions of light, alerts to the oncoming storm, or reflections of the one that just passed … variation, mellowness, excitement. Or even contentment from the simple act of looking up.
I tuned into them one summer, learned the names of the types and sub-types and sub-sub-types, read a narrative about cloud watching, and got lost in the depth of information they store about our world. Like the rest of the sky, there is a thread there that connects us across oceans and continents. And yet I too often go about my day, head down, focused on the foreground and ignore their beauty. All the while, the clouds drift along, humbly, unnoticed.
In most every walk there are frames of wonder. Pausing at each, can turn a short stroll into an extensive adventure. But just one close examination, embeds a memory of a walk along the Central Oregon Coast with a mentor and long-time friend. Reveling in this little patch of the world.
Intricate designs of moss laid ever so delicately across an old log, placed gently on conglomerate rocks, positioned perfectly on a shore floor of rippled sand. The ubiquitous waves ebb and flow over the sculpture, sometimes soaking the whole picture, other times creating an illusion of floating. A small school of fish comes up to examine for a moment, finds safety in the negative space, and darts away to the next frame. As do I.
graywanderings 