Along the wild washes raging virginlike through narrows, past steep walls dripping with centuries of moisture, cutting relentlessly toward arid plains, the currents of this river uncover millennia of remembrance. Once embedded in ancient seas, once boulders fallen from ridges pushing upward, once immovable masses blocking gravity’s watery inclinations, the stones bordering the river’s path pause here now as little more than shining pebbles. Their voices speak a wisdom we can only imagine. Their songs echo beyond the melodies of river, of songbirds, of hikers whistling their way to mountaintop conquests. ♨
Mountain man Joe Meek’s first summer of fur trapping in 1829, which put him among the earliest of non-indigenous people to enter Yellowstone.
1980 we spent the entire year, all twelve months, on the avocado ranch. It was our magical time in paradise. We were alive then with youth, not quite knowing how happy we were.
A black-billed magpie crosses the barbed boundaries of a wire fence to defend its winged playfulness in a big sky landscape. Perched upon a wooden post, it scouts its next move. More elegant than its cousin crow, the black-and-white formalwear of the magpie obscures its irreverent posturing above the sagebrush plain. ♨
Gazing into the blue-green depths through this watery portal to the underworld, we don’t see the fiery hell of our imagination, but instead only reflections of our own worlds. Our demons do not dwell in the boiling, stinking waters that ooze from the earth’s bowels. They dance instead in the forests and meadows that surround us. ♨
The moon rises over the forested horizon as we witness its appearance from the lake shore. How many moonrises have we seen across these waters?