At least it felt like that hiking this morning. I’ve been tramping through these hills for thirty odd years and I never tire of the arid wilderness that surrounds them. This time of year the hills are dun colored, with a dusting of snow on top like powdered sugar. I walk through naked aspens, their many eyes watching me from slender trunks covered in silvery white skin. Some trees are charred black from spot fires, their lifeless limbs very still in the air. The only sounds are the crunching of my shoes on the path and the swishing of the dried grass poking up through the snow as my limbs brush past. Occasionally I can hear the muffled gurgle of the creek, hollow sounding under it’s frozen mantle. As I climb the sun moves closer, heating the earth under my feet and releasing scents of grass, sage and dirt, intoxicating me with the signature perfume of this place. If it snows the smells will be snuffed out so I inhale deeply, trying to fix the memory in my mind. I pick my way carefully over the ice in places, head down in sharp concentration so I don’t fall. When the path turns to snow again I look up. Rocky outcroppings decorate the crown of the hill in front of me like a prehistoric necklace, a few scattered pine trees stand guard at the base. I miss my dogs, but I realize that I can connect to the earth without distraction. I am focused on my senses only. I reach the saddle, sweating now, stripping layers. The air chills as I enter the pine forest, stills as if I’ve moved into another dimension. I hear a bird call, alerting his tribe to my presence. Filtered sunlight glints off strings of ice crystals clinging to branches, impossibly beautiful. The trail leads out of the trees and I follow it down the other side of the hill, the valley spread out before me like a magic carpet. As I walk I feel cradled by the land itself, as if Mother Nature were folding me in a hug. Her energy flows up through my feet into my body, filling me with the strength of her grounding. I am grateful to her. Her sun warms my back as I walk down the mountain, the soft touch of a mother’s hand.
ashleycollins
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