a kingdom built of seeds

I had a special day in the mountains this summer that left me happy, tired, and sunburnt (not to mention with a few mosquito bites), also with a new peak. From the top I slowly took in the panorama of the familiar mountain ranges, and the vast (seemingly endless) wilderness. I stumbled upon a clan of mountain goats not more than 20 feet away on the ridge up to the peak (with their patchy, partially shed winter coats), and witnessed a small herd of a few adult and two young elk bounding across the grassy meadow of a small saddle, up and over into a lingering patch of snow on the other side. Small, fragile wildflowers—bright purple, white, and yellow—trembled in the wind and colored the desolation of talus and dirt and the brittle alpine grass. I was alone, and moments throughout the long walk took my breath away. I’m still amazed that, after almost seven years, I can still find so many unwalked paths and new perspectives of the landscapes and mountain ranges I love. There is no such thing as dull overfamiliarity here; the wild keeps you coming back for more. No matter how many times you see it, experience it, immerse yourself in it, it gives back; you always find something new, beautiful. And, although it’s safer (and probably a better habit) to have a partner when venturing into the wilderness and/or bear country, there’s a solitary peace in the rhythm of your own footsteps and breathing, in the wandering of your feet and mind, in the silence of human voices that leaves space to hear the wind in the trees, the groaning of a pair of dead trunks, the call of a pipit from atop a scraggly pine.

If you give yourself to it—the miles, the dirt, the sweat, the weariness, the elements—it always gives back. These resilient evergreens, these carefree songbirds, these patient mountains that don’t take time too seriously—I find them to be some of the best teachers I know.