once upon a dream

once upon a dream

by | Nov 2, 2022 | Uncategorized

a trail in teton national park takes off from a nondescript, dirt parking lot that one reaches only after traveling a mile or so of rutted, gravelly earth with occasional potholes the size of, say, a watering trough. this puts few travelers off: what lies ahead is well worth the dust, bumps, caution, and discomfort.

the lupine meadows trailhead offers options, and in the past, I have taken two of those: one to garnett canyon and onward to lower saddle, upper saddle, and then a climb up the grand teton; and the other, a less dramatic hike but a surreal ending at amphitheater lake.

a few weeks back I awakened in the early dark, packed my daypack, and drove into the park so that I could begin my hike to the lake by 5:30. headlamp lit, hat and layers and gloves on, I headed up the trail.

singing.

I wanted any and all bears in the vicinity to know I was coming, and to know not to mess with me.

I sang the song I’d awakened with, a song I’d not thought of for years but that had somehow played in my nocturnal adventures, a song from Cinderella whose main lyric is

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.

I made up the rest of the words, because that was the only line I could recall.

and I sang, and sang, until the sky began to lighten and I eventually broke free of the cloud in which I’d been walking. below me spread the top of the cloud which nestled itself in the jackson valley, and from my new position I could now see mountain tops, clouds, and the sun which was just beginning to inch its way into the visible sky. I grew a bit warmer, and then colder as I neared the top of the trail where snow lay on the ground.

surprise lake comes first, a delightful, unexpected gift on your left, and then within another quarter mile you happen upon ampitheater lake, larger and more dramatic, as it reigns from the base of granite and gneiss mountains that reach far into the sky.

it was silent.

not another human was anywhere near.

the lake itself was glass, mirror-like, reflecting perfectly the walls of stone that shot upward, snow dusted, still.

I get to do this, I thought. my life contains moment after moment, experiences one after another, that, when I slow down to understand and let them in, are all reflections of this dream I live. a dream in which someone is always there, walking alongside me, whether visible or not.

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.

what binds us

what binds us

by | Sep 8, 2022 | Uncategorized

a few days ago I hiked to grandeur peak, a local favorite that begins with a steep-sided upward journey alongside a shaded creek, then moves through a series of switchbacks to reach a view-dripping saddle, and ends with a twenty-minute climb graced with unending vistas, a few brief scrambles, and finally a landing on a rocky, scrubby peak. the brief “scrambles” have toe-holds and often good handholds, and if you reflect, it’s evident that most of us who utilize this route experience the same thought process, the same decisions, and the same method of getting securely up (or down) the sketchier places. my feet seek out the exact same ledges those before me have.

one such place has a tree on the right of the trail, and after I grabbed one of its old, stunted, broken-off outshoots to keep myself upright on the steep slope, I turned around and went back to take a picture of that smooth, polished-by-thousands-of-hands-over-the-years branch. if you look closely, you’ll see how the branch on the left is darker, burnished over time by me, and by people just like me; the branch has been buffed by sweaty palms, gloved and mittened hands, cool grasps of those who hike in the chilled early morning.

as I hike such a traveled trail, I realize what binds us is much greater than what sets us apart. we each love, seek to be loved, strive to plant ourselves firmly wherever we are, and reach for that which might stabilize us.

I reach for the polished branch without much thought; it’s almost instinctual to grasp what can keep us upright.