I WALKED FROM home again. A mere eight miles and roughly three hours of moderate effort, and then I was in another world.
‘Turkey Central’ I call the location, named for the wild turkeys I’ve seen up there several times. But it’s a home to others, too: mule deer, elk, black bears, mountain lions, squirrels, ten thousand singing birds, and numerous other residents besides. In summary, it’s a wild natural location that throbs with life, a location close to home, but a location that is so often overlooked.
I’m not sure how many people see the foothills, I mean really see them, in all their richness and variety and beauty and infinite complexity. Then again, perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe others do understand what they offer. But from what I can tell from direct observation, the majority rush through en route to other places… to higher places, or to get back home. If I had to guess, I’d say most people miss the treasures that lie hidden in plain sight up in the Front Range foothills of the Colorado Rockies.
And perhaps that’s just as well? After all, in general ‘we’ don’t tend to visit softly.
I stopped to camp where I’ve stopped before, in one of eight different cherished locations, although with each one of them you’d never know I’d previously visited even if you knew to the yard the exact spot. That’s the important part. The essential part. The duty of visiting. If I were to leave a trace then I would be part of the problem. Fortunately, ‘no trace’ really isn’t hard.
Upon arrival I stripped my shirt, kicked off my shoes and socks, and pitched the tent barefoot. Sixty-five Fahrenheit – or so my miniature thermometer read. Spring-like warmth at 4:30 p.m. on the last evening of February at 7,500 feet! Crazy! The Winter That Never Was – that’s how I’ll remember the last three months. It’s given more sixty- and seventy-degree days than any recorded winter before it, and only a few brief rounds of snow. The birds weren’t complaining, however, and – honestly – neither was I. But let’s hope normal Front Range spring moisture hits soon and gives the birds something else to sing about. Or… fire season will be tense. I mean, it already is.
I spent the evening immersed in place, looking up often, ‘reaching out’ with all my senses often, but also beta reading a friend’s book. My first two books were improved immeasurably by the honest critiques my own beta readers bravely and generously sent back. Hopefully, my third book will benefit, too. Trusted friends are currently hard at it… I hope! But there in camp it was my turn again, another opportunity to pay it forward, although – as with other books I’ve beta read – it wasn’t a chore. Last year, the best book I read by a significant margin (in fact, the best and most moving book I’ve read in years) was a manuscript written by a friend, Kate Armstrong, a book that was traumatic, heart-breaking, educational, inspiring and beautiful – a book that I think will be HUGE. And the manuscript I’d carried to camp bore a striking resemblance to it in several of its themes: a story of two near-death experiences – a climbing fall and then stage 4 cancer – and then a new perspective on life because of it.
Perspective is everything.
Life is fleeting. It is so fragile. And so precious. It is so so so beautiful. We all need to remember the truth of this.
Perhaps it was gratitude prompted by the book, or perhaps the warmth, or perhaps the soul-soothing moonlit stroll before bed – drifting silently through silver light, breathing deep and slow, merging into place – but whatever it was I slept like a child and when I awoke the beauty of the new day was Off… The… Charts. I woke to streaming sunlight. To unseasonable warmth. To aromatic air heavy with pine resin and volatile organic compounds that promote good health. I sat outside for breakfast and – right on cue – three wild turkeys wandered by. Turkey Central indeed! I couldn’t stop smiling. Unbeknownst to me, horrifically, tragically, the inhuman world was starting another inhuman war, but where I sat peace reigned. I didn’t need to read a book about nearly dying to remind me to appreciate life – my own memories of nearly dying keep that appreciation alive – and I didn’t need to imagine the world as it ought to be, and as it could be dammit if only the human race would grow up – but the book and the compassion and empathy it brought back to the surface certainly didn’t hurt.
We awake each day to a miracle. Time alone in nature makes that clear. True empathy for others does, too.
When I packed up camp and walked a long route home the immediate environment around me had never seemed more beautiful. In fact, it had become the most beautiful place on the planet, and that’s not hyperbole! I’ve been in some sensationally beautiful places, many of them far grander in scale than these modest foothills… but none of them more beautiful. That’s the thing. Living in the moment amplifies beauty, even modest beauty. Openness to ‘details’ does it, too. Time in nature then time again and then again does it most of all. Frequency deepens connection. Ordinary becomes extraordinary… although this can become a ‘problem’, which in this case was a problem centered on the fact that my family was expecting me home. The problem was, the morning and the location had become too beautiful. How could that possibly be so? Well, I thought I’d never make it home! I had to keep stopping to take it in! I had to stop over and over to take photos, even though I knew full well that they’d never adequately represent the emotions I felt inside.
In truth, I felt a surge of guilt for feeling such pleasure, and for the privilege of experiencing such beauty. Was it moral, to be happy when others were suffering? The guilt came from knowing that at that very moment millions were fighting cancer, or were fighting hidden mental health battles no one but themselves will ever understand, or were fighting for their very lives with missiles raining down. But then again, I couldn’t help what I felt. It was real, regardless. And it was my duty to welcome it in, and perhaps my duty to share it. In that moment, surrounded by what seemed like the most beautiful place on the planet, nature did to me what it has done so many times before.
Out there among the ponderosa pines, junipers, mahogany thickets and cedars, amongst the crinkled folds of the foothills, in an unassuming landscape that many people rush through to get somewhere else, I found absolute peace.
Which is why I’m sharing these words. Because that peace is there still, and in other natural places too, if ever YOU need it. Something to keep in mind, perhaps.
