Mountain Conversation
My daughter, Abby, and I scurried around to get the morning chores done early and load the horses into the trailer, but we knew it would be worth it.
We were meeting a friend to spend a day in the mountains.
My friend Colleen raises cattle, too. All of us spend most of our days close to nature, but the mountains add another dimension to life outdoors – powerful, unyielding, yet benevolent.
Abby and I followed Colleen into the trailhead parking area. Words spilled out as soon as pickup doors swung open. The wind might make it hard to hear that day, but we wouldn’t run out of ideas to share.
Our horses knew the trail. My horse pricked her ears forward and stepped out. If one shod hoof slipped on a slick rock, the others were ready to take her weight and mine.
I wasn’t sure who needed this trip more, the humans or the horses.
Our conversation started with frustrated venting about our shared concerns of how to survive continuing drought, darned grasshoppers and invasive weeds. An outsider might have rolled his eyes at the details of cheatgrass control strategies or balancing cow herds with finances. Fortunately, no outsiders appeared.
As the horses carried us higher and closer to the epitome of mountain summertime, our conversation relaxed. Our ideas turned their backs on worries and faced future celebrations.
By then, an outsider might roll his eyes at the details of how to balance comfort with style and how to blend a snow-white forehead with bronze cheeks at an upcoming wedding. Fortunately, no outsiders appeared.
As we rode, we were searching for a trail that would take us to the top of the world. A wildfire had burned through the area since I had last ridden that trail so I wasn’t sure we could find it. By lunchtime, I knew we were close to the turnoff. My backpack full of special treats was getting heavy so we parked the horses in the shade while we munched.
During lunch, the conversation turned to more of our common habits. Abby rolled her eyes when she discovered that Colleen and I eat sandwiches the same way, from the outside in so we save the best part for last. Abby had labeled my technique as just another weirdness, but she has an immense amount of respect for Colleen so she had to rewrite her thesis about sandwich-eating strategies. I giggled at the thought of the day Abby implements this wise strategy, too.
We missed the almost imperceptible turnoff, riding instead toward a box canyon, hooves tapping a melody through a dry creek bed below stunning granite slabs. The conversation turned to wildflowers, sparkling creeks, and the scent of a mountain summer. No eyes rolled.
As we turned around to ride out the same way we came in, the conversation dwindled to companionable silence.
The wind picked up, blowing our hats around. I appreciated our reliable horses even more.
We found the trail turnoff that wound through barren lodgepole pines and deadfall. We would have to come back another day to find our way to the top of the world, which made leaving a little easier.
The closer we came to the trailhead, the more our conversation returned to coordinating schedules for the week and talking about how to solve the challenges we face this summer. The magic dissipated.
Yet we all felt it. The mountains had allowed a special part of each of us to emerge, rise to our consciousness, when most of the time that part is stuffed deep within. We had stretched for a moment, regained our balance and replenished our gratitude.
S’mores back at the trailer helped, too.