High on a Mountain Top

I left our camp at the side of the lake and walked toward the steep forest hill. I could see tall walls of the hillside through the small openings of quaking aspen and pine trees. It gave the feigned appearance of being just ahead, but I knew that wasn't so.

I stepped through an open space of felled trees, tossed across the tall mountain grass like toothpicks poured from a cup. I stretched my leg over the high ones, sat my bottom on the girth of the tree like riding a horse, then swooped my other leg over and crossed to the other side, just to find another felled tree. Some of the timber I simply stepped across. Gnarled branches, still green with pine needles, blocked certain passage-ways and I pushed the limp branches to the side and pushed my way through.

Beyond the short crest of a hill, the mountain fell away into a ravine of large white igneous boulders. I stepped onto the first rock and felt my footing for balance. Then I leaped to the next, and like a person using stepping stones to stride across a stream, I successfully moved across the field.

At the other side now, the hill now rose steeply. I angled obliquely up the hillside, grasping sapling branches and sturdy rocks to pull me up. My hiking boots dug deeply into the rich, black mountain soil, cutting through decomposing layers of coniferous needles.

The thin mountain air now caused my lungs to heave for breath. Being my first venture at this elevation for the year, they had yet become accustomed to such exertion. I halted for a moment and wiped the wetness from my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt and tasted the salty residue on my lips.

I looked behind and below me and could see the whole of Lower Kents Lake and youth canoeing across the surface and could hear a laughing scream of a teenage girl. White branches of aspen trees blocked much of the view of the lake and I knew that I still had more distance to climb.

Before I left, I had asked the Bishop what time he needed me back to help cook dinner for the girls. He gave me a time frame of an hour and a half, but quickly added that he could handle it himself if he needed to. If I were there, he would use my help stirring the barbeque pork in the dutch oven and flipping tortillas. I assured him that I would return in time to help. Now that I was nearly a mile away from camp and separated by an obstacle course of thick forest wilderness, I wondered about my promise to return.

After a short respite of relatively easy climbing, the route to the top turned steep again. A prickly brier with cactus-like spines grabbed onto the sleeve of my shirt and pulled it taut. I carefully unsnagged the fabric.

I wasn't climbing to the tallest summit on the hillside, but rather a a rocky promontory that I assumed would have a view of its own. As I climbed, slabs of granite bulged out from the hillside and I found myself bouldering up and over these chunks of rock.

At one time, I thought that I was making my final ascent, but as I neared the top I learned that I had yet another steep incline to go. I slung my tripod crossways over my neck and shoulder as I needed two hands for the final climb. I squeezed inside the crevice of the granite boulder and placed my boot inside the natural niches and pulled myself up with both hands. Short clusters of white daisies grew all around the rocky pinnacle that constituted the summit of my climb. At last I was at the top!

The view opened up and below me and in every direction I could see miles and miles. A solitary lake became the prominent object of my curiosity. It sat serenely amidst pine trees in a northerly direction from where I sat. I didn't see people, nor canoes, nor trucks around this body of water. Although I could make out a faint road that led to the lake, I felt as if it were hidden deeply in the mountains and only I knew the secret of its location. It's distance was probably a mile away, but I gazed at its miniature outline and dark blue hue and fancied what it would be like to be there now.

Not only could I see this lake, of which I did not know the name, but I counted four others! All nestled deep in the forest.

Behind Lower Kent's Lake rose the snow-capped peaks of Baldy, Belknap, Delano, and Holly. To the west, lightning flashed and a dark rainstorm passed across the valley. A gust of wind hurled itself across the slope of the mountain and the wet smell of rain blew all around me. This was heaven!

A grove of aspens grew on the west slope below me. The green leaves at the tops of their branches created a perfect carpet on the hillside. This must look amazing during the fall when the colors have changed, I thought. I also imagined the dense canopy of leaves creating great habitat for elk.

A clap of thunder bellowed through the air, followed by another gust of wind. I quickly set up my tripod to capture a few photographs before the storm moved too close.

I think that if I could choose only one place to spend my life, I would not choose the desert, nor the city. I would choose the mountains. There is something about being high in elevation and walking among the pines and trodding the same soil as deer and elk. This is about as close to celestial habitation as one can get on earth.

I thought back to the Bishop and the meal that he would be cooking and how I only had twenty more minutes until I told him I would be back down. Unrealistic? Maybe. He said that he didn't need my help. That's good. Although I wanted to help, the impulse to linger on the mountain was stronger than that to help. I may not find this combination again of storm, smell, wind, the snow-capped peaks, and the lakes. And thus continued the monologue inside my mind and I rationalized staying on the mountain top a little bit longer than I should have.

The storm on the valley was still moving south and occasionally I saw a strike of lightning through the dark mist of rain below the clouds. All the other clouds that hovered the mountain ranged from white to gray, but none of them had produced lightning yet that I had seen.

In the center of this large swath of forest, some five miles away, I could see the cut from the gorge where the paved road twisted up the steep slopes above the Beaver River. There is so much left to explore, I thought, feeling that anxious bug of wanderlust brooding inside of me.

But now it was time to hurry back to camp.

I folded up my tripod and slid it into its case and returned my lens cap back to the camera. Slinging them both over my shoulders, I used agile movements to ease back down the granite boulders and past the clusters of daisies.

Thick drops of rain fell from the sky at a very slow pace. The scent of the forest lifted from the ground and the pungent pine and the musky smell of tree bark danced in the wind.