Setting off before dawn, following familure roads of the valley,
crossing new bridges and setting in at the old parking lot in the
woods. Taoist thought cites that life is a journey of cycles, as true
as the passage of the four seasons. The earths rotation about a star
as an eternal beat, and yet each cycle builds upon the last as a
spiral of life growing outward. Each modifing tempo and rhythmn to the
eternal beat. The familur gives us comfort, and yet even old steep
trail change each year. Shouldering the pack, the trail lead off into
the fern laden forest, and empty alder baughs waithing from springs
whisper to bring it to life.
Switchbacks make up the tick of the trail metronome. The pacing of
poles keeping time inbetween. The stands of western hemlock, blend
into hues of green and grey, leading the eyes off in a blur, as the
trail keeps it's beat. These second growth stands shadow the few
remaining black spires of an old fire a century in age. Once at the
Snag Flats, the old cedars and Douglas firs tower in their domain. A
lone Raven crows out his prescence, the low tones of his call echoing
amount the stands giving a sence of space.
The switchbacks begin again in ernest, rising up the mountain sides.
Others training for marathon runs descend past me, only to tag the
bottom and meet me upon my return as the make the summit again. As
views cast out towards the valley, the white vail of Tahoma stands to
the south, and the white lace begins to fill the path I follow.
Opening up to the boulder field, a rocky tooth rises above it all. The
familur sight if my first scramble, brings me back to long summer days
of a child. Finding the small lines that lead to the summit. Somehow
todays ice keeps me from raising into it's folds. But it's presence
seems to warm even on a chilly day.
Looking out at the farmlands of the Snoqualmie, snow capped Alpine
wilderness, and the towers of the city by the Sound, I feel calm. Yet
deep inside as I look out wanderlust still inhabits my soul. On the
descent, I see a man hiking up his pace in familur 3 mph pace. Wearing
the same tan desert shirt, and dusty lightweight pack, I know him to
be a fellow Thru-hiker. We talk for 20 mind sharing stories of the
trail, each desiring to return to those free summer days. It seemed a
week separated us along the Pacific Crest, and the stories yet seem to
remain the same. Bidding ado, I follow the footpath to the valley
below, returning to the city domain. But my heart seem to remain,
walking along mountain lines, thinking of high country days.
Along the waters of a Seattle Rain Retreat,
Ridgewalker
山武士
seattlerainretreat.blogspot.com
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