I am hiking with two friends to a high lookout in the Swan Valley. It is steep--4 miles and 4,000+ feet . . . and my lungs and legs tire quickly of the up, up, up, the constant incline that rarely gives us relief. It is a perfect August day, bright and blue and warm, and the sun pours its golden morning light on us as we push our feet, our legs, our bodies forward--and upward.
I get frustrated sometimes, while hiking. I get frustrated when my body doesn't work as well as I want it to, when it tires, when blisters form, when my breath comes short and my legs ache. I get angry at silly things. I start thinking things like, "I didn't know this was going to be such a steep trail! I hate this constant up up up! It's dumb! What's the point? I'm not sure I would have done this if I'd known exactly what was involved!" . . . etc.
I find myself complaining, getting grumpy. Because I am with other people, I try (sort of) to be positive. I pause occasionally to look around me--there's meadowrue, seed pods dangling. I glance at clumps of fireweed, the brightness of goldenrod, the beautiful mottled green of the mountain stretching above me. But then I notice the trail switching back and forth across the face, a continuous upward climb with no level space in sight. This mountain seems to get higher with each turn, each switchback--and we are no closer to the top. Or so it seems.
Grumpy me.
I know better--I know the view will probably be nice; indeed, as I look out over the valley behind me, and the backs of the Mission Mountains, I am in awe of the beauty. We are high. Holland Lake glimmers blue and green below us, and Seeley Lake comes into view as we trudge ever higher. In the shade of a Ponderosa pine we come across a patch of fresh huckleberries and wortleberries, and their bright juicyness surprises my tongue, lightens my senses.
Up, up, up.
We pause at a switchback so I can strip off my sock and apply a bandaid and moleskin to my blister, which is already the size of a quarter and filled with fluid. Ouch. I walk gingerly, doing my best to keep from rubbing my left heel any more than possible. We are in the sun now, on an exposed south-facing slope, and the sweat trickles down my face and my back.
There is a sudden sharp turn and there, just above us, is the roof of a dilapidated fire cabin--the cabin that sits on top of the ridge, the cabin that marks the end of our trek. We are nearly there. I limp up the suddenly rocky slope--I can see the top of the ridge--I crest the ridge--and there, before me, stretched out like an infinite banner, is wilderness.
I see mountain after mountain reaching to the horizon. I can see miles upon miles into pure wilderness: rocky slopes, alpine lakes, subalpine larches, far-off ridges dark with distance, a few patches of snow. My eyes are dazzled by green and brown, grey and white, and the oh-so-blue of sky. I turn, slowly, and see the Missions stretching out behind me, the whole vast landscape laid out before me like a feast. My eyes drink it up greedily, all 360 glorious degrees of it. Aching legs and blistered heels are forgotten as I gaze at the bright world around me. The breeze cools my face, the sun beats down on my hair, and I bask in the light and wind dancing around me.
Oh, beautiful, wonderful, wild Montana. I feel contentment pour into me like water: I could stay here forever. I could stay here forever.
I get frustrated sometimes, while hiking. I get frustrated when my body doesn't work as well as I want it to, when it tires, when blisters form, when my breath comes short and my legs ache. I get angry at silly things. I start thinking things like, "I didn't know this was going to be such a steep trail! I hate this constant up up up! It's dumb! What's the point? I'm not sure I would have done this if I'd known exactly what was involved!" . . . etc.
I find myself complaining, getting grumpy. Because I am with other people, I try (sort of) to be positive. I pause occasionally to look around me--there's meadowrue, seed pods dangling. I glance at clumps of fireweed, the brightness of goldenrod, the beautiful mottled green of the mountain stretching above me. But then I notice the trail switching back and forth across the face, a continuous upward climb with no level space in sight. This mountain seems to get higher with each turn, each switchback--and we are no closer to the top. Or so it seems.
Grumpy me.
I know better--I know the view will probably be nice; indeed, as I look out over the valley behind me, and the backs of the Mission Mountains, I am in awe of the beauty. We are high. Holland Lake glimmers blue and green below us, and Seeley Lake comes into view as we trudge ever higher. In the shade of a Ponderosa pine we come across a patch of fresh huckleberries and wortleberries, and their bright juicyness surprises my tongue, lightens my senses.
Up, up, up.
We pause at a switchback so I can strip off my sock and apply a bandaid and moleskin to my blister, which is already the size of a quarter and filled with fluid. Ouch. I walk gingerly, doing my best to keep from rubbing my left heel any more than possible. We are in the sun now, on an exposed south-facing slope, and the sweat trickles down my face and my back.
There is a sudden sharp turn and there, just above us, is the roof of a dilapidated fire cabin--the cabin that sits on top of the ridge, the cabin that marks the end of our trek. We are nearly there. I limp up the suddenly rocky slope--I can see the top of the ridge--I crest the ridge--and there, before me, stretched out like an infinite banner, is wilderness.
I see mountain after mountain reaching to the horizon. I can see miles upon miles into pure wilderness: rocky slopes, alpine lakes, subalpine larches, far-off ridges dark with distance, a few patches of snow. My eyes are dazzled by green and brown, grey and white, and the oh-so-blue of sky. I turn, slowly, and see the Missions stretching out behind me, the whole vast landscape laid out before me like a feast. My eyes drink it up greedily, all 360 glorious degrees of it. Aching legs and blistered heels are forgotten as I gaze at the bright world around me. The breeze cools my face, the sun beats down on my hair, and I bask in the light and wind dancing around me.
Oh, beautiful, wonderful, wild Montana. I feel contentment pour into me like water: I could stay here forever. I could stay here forever.
