Saturday, June 20, 2009

Wishes Whispered on the Wind

Along with the zillions of lupines, asters, an...

Image via Wikipedia

While sitting in a mountain field, filled with wild flowers. The sweet taste, like honey, of Indian Paintbrush on my lips.  The soft yellow glow of buttercups mingle with a fragrant aroma rising from the blue bells and columbine.   I hear the music of the wind’s spirit.  Feeling the current of a soft  breeze tenderly mix and blend the long stems of grass reaching high.  The rustle of leaves moved with a tempo created by spirits of the wind.  The music is clear and poignant,  inspirational and relaxing. 

It’s like listening to dreams whispered to the winds, carried where only nature can take them.  Surrounded by the protective rampart of mountain ranges, bathed in the soft glow of sunset light. Resplendent colors cascading over the the horizon.  A

 panorama of fire, both in the heavens above and the terra firma below, meeting in the middle where the horizon line runs jagged and rough.  Blazing reds and oranges, highlighted with gold, soften and darken becoming comforting purples, grays and browns. 


The artistry of natures spirits, is not only visual but tactile and auditory.  To get the full effect, one simply needs the serenity of natures environs.  It matters not whether it’s the beach or the mountains, even the desert has its own version.  Your preference is as unique and individual as you are.  The tones,  tempos, and texture of the art differ from location to location, just as they do with the seasons.  Natures color pallet,  varying and vibrant, depending on where it is you choose to view them. 

What remains consistent, is that if one wishes, and listens close they can hear the music, see the dreams, and share what others have cast to the wind.  Then all that remains is for you to whisper your wishes to the winds.  Let them be carried on, higher and farther, perhaps someone will hear them and grant and answer.

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Sunday, June 14, 2009

Whispering Winds

Pine trees along WIlliams Lake trail, Taos ski...

Image by shewhopaints via Flickr

This is a re-write of a story I did for Ruminations of a Small Town Mountain Boy. I hope you enjoy it!



There was a place back home where I loved to go and sit, to think and ponder.  Sorting through all those  wandering thoughts, organizing, adding just a little structure to my cluttered head.  It was a lonely place, filled with spirits of times past, a place of centering, soulful reflection.  A place deep in the pine forest, near a small grove of Aspen trees.   

There was an old miners tram, mounted on steel rails that rose quietly, lithely up the mountainside.  Many a worker had ridden the tram in it’s time of prosperity, an era long since forgotten.  Now it sits lonely and forlorn, weathered wood slowly corroding, splintering and disintegrating at the whim of times fickle hand.  Surrounded by tall lodge pole pine trees, reaching for the sky leaving a path vacant along the tracks. A lone pine tree, young and full of promise,  growing through the center of the tracks, obscuring the prospective view of ghostly riders. 

I would sit for hours, near that old tram, leaning against a tree absorbing the view of the mountain forest and listening.  At times, I could swear I heard the groan and grind of an old electric motor, the remnants of which strewn about, struggling under a heavy burden.  There were times it was the mumblings of men, worn and weary, from a long hard day of strenuous  work.  Men who wished only for a stiff drink and a good meal,  dreaming of that elusive mother load gold strike.  Whishing for only one thing, what all people really want, to provide security and comfort to their loved ones. 

When you listened close, you could hear the wind gently stirring the  forest trees, softly whispering, silently singing a melody.  A song lonesome and sweet, filled with dreams and wonder, sorrow and serenity.  A sound so refreshing, remarkable, and full of life!

It was a place long forgotten, and lost to many. A place that surely had seen the sufferings and successes of people long since parted.  A place that strangely held an unusual focusing, soothing, and rejuvenating power. 

I could sit there and dream of centuries past…  people who came before.  Dream the simple dreams of those who toiled and troubled inside the mountain.  Feel the desires of those who worked the world above.  People harvesting its bounty or herding and hunting its  bestial gifts. Dreams so simple and supportive, lacking the stress of today's ventures.  A place I could lose myself in solitude, listening… learning from old spirits, yet young.  Guiding souls willing to lend an ear to a fellow lonely wanderer. 

When I allow myself, I can take my thoughts back to that place, and just faintly hear the forest of trees, whispering… softly singing a melody. Simple sweet music, unheard by many, treasured by a few lucky, lonely souls.

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Sunday, June 7, 2009

Summer Slumbers

Rainbow Trout (Oncorhynchus mykiss)
Image via Wikipedia
One of the things I loved to do on a quiet beautiful Sunday, back home in the mountains, was to go fishing.   I would find one of the many remote little streams, filled with beaver dams, Brook, and Rainbow trout.  This generally entailed a short drive and long hike to get where I desired.  The key to my enjoying the fishing, was the seclusion of the less traveled territories.

The hike in, was many times very satisfying and pleasant.  Walking along a creek bed, traveling through the lodge pole pine and aspen covered forests.  Always an abundance of willow growing near the streams, adding a flash of green with their red orange stalks radiant in the sun. The strong vibrant fragrances of the mountain forest permeating my senses.   The clear amazingly brilliant blue of the morning sky, accented with tufts of billowy white clouds. 

The sounds of the wilderness, combining to compose a music so beautiful and soothing to the soul and spirit. Songbirds singing their love songs, and welcoming those who choose to travel their domain.  Crickets chirping that strange singsong version of their own.  The breeze rippling the leaves of aspen and willow, creating a soft balance.  The undulation of the creek as it flowed along its time worn path of polished and tumbled stones,  giving a steady pleasant chorus, finishing out the composition.

The spot I’m looking for is one near an old beaver dam, not one that is active, but perhaps abandoned by its former creator.  Surrounded by the willows and aspen, and a lush green mat of tall grass swaying with the occasional flurry of the fickle breeze.  A soft grass padded perch near the creek, a place of relaxation and contentment.   I sit comfortably laying out the contrivances of the purported task at hand.  The tackle box with its collection of lures, hooks, and fly’s all intended to attract the sleekly swimming wonders of mountain creeks. 

As I dig through the impressive array of lures, I decide on a new and interesting tactic.  A tactic that probably, most definitely, will not, return the original intension of catching a few fish.  I weight a line, place a little red and white colored bobber on the line.  Intentionally failing to attach a hook or any other creative form of bait or lure.  Casting the line out so it will be clearly visible to any who might happen by.  I lay back on my soft bed of grass, close my eyes and allow the sweet sensual scents of the creek to mingle with the comforting fragrances of the forest.  Tuning my ears to natures music, I allow myself to slip off into a warm sunny dreamland of mountain wonders.


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Friday, June 5, 2009

Springtime Mountain Wonders

Silver Star Mountain wildflowers

Image by Chris R Roberts via Flickr

Mountains in Springtime hold a beauty unparalleled to anything I have seen elsewhere.  You get a kaleidoscope of colors and settings.  The snow melting slowly, cause fresh water to run down over the flowing fields of wild flowers.  Feeding and nurturing their explosion of color and fragrance.  Lush green mountain peat moss bogs, and groves of small willows.  everything set against a backdrop of earth tone colors from the rock outcroppings and cliff sides.

 

This was always the time of year I enjoyed the most.  Everyone else had already had their spring, yet we were just starting to reap the benefits of ours.  The Cabin fever having a chance to be broken because the weather had warmed enough to melt off much of the high country.  Yet there were places farther up, above timberline where the snow remained year round.   It always provided a beautiful backdrop to view the spring wildflower eruption. 



Always the sounds of Mother Nature welcoming all guests.  Whistle pigs sounding the alarm anytime someone gets close to their rocky homes.  Winds whispering through a grove of aspen trees, waking the largest living organism.  Songbirds softly singing sweet melodies, calling to each other a welcome home song.  The gossiping of a babbling brook, flowing strong, and telling a story of it’s own.

Spirits of old traveling the tundra, stretching their ghostly legs.  Simply looking for a little companionship from the living visitors.  Each carrying a story of their own.  A story of hardship or accomplishment, each unique unto itself.  Never a thing to fear, rather a comforting umbra to welcome all who choose to listen.
 

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