With a brace on my left foot to combat tendinitis, I’ve been forced to slow down. Not that I’ve ever been capable of storming up steep mountain trails, but my injury (and doctor) have left me with no choice but to walk on level trails (or as level as one finds in the mountains) and at a gait that allows me to view individual pebbles in the road.
Better yet, I’ve used this occasion to allow myself to take frequent breaks when I’m walking. My doctor doesn’t want me walking at all, but I have a strong need to be outdoors—seeing what’s new every week, breathing in the fresh air, hearing the wind and the crows—so I compromise with my doctor’s orders by walking slowly and mindfully and stopping every 10 or 15 minutes.
On my walks around Meeker Park, I pause to admire the rough textured wall of an old barn (below) or notice the small opening of water in the white snow (bottom). I find little nooks where I can rest—a smooth rock or fallen log, someplace protected from the constant winds.
Two weeks ago, in front of an old cabin (boarded up for winter), I sat on a bench and noticed a circle of ponderosas that I had walked by a hundred times but somehow had never appropriately appreciated. The trees were tall and straight, probably more than a 100 years old, and framed Mount Meeker in a slightly different way than I had seen before. From this view also I could see how our small enclave of cabins circled the valley, a ring of civilization around the willow bushes by the creek, impenetrable except to the moose that chew their way through.
Last week, after a blizzard had dumped a foot and half of snow on the mountains, it was difficult to keep my balance on the road, which was covered alternately in snow, slush, ice and mud. When I paused to survey the valley, from the height of Cabin Peak (top photo, on the right) to the willow bottoms, and to listen to the quiet, I heard water running, even though there was no obvious source; the stream that cuts through the valley was smothered by snow. I realized that underneath these white piles, the snow was melting and trickling down the hill. If I had been walking at my usual pace, I would never have heard it.
And if I hadn't heard it, I wouldn't have been reminded that spring—and life—is slowly returning to this high mountain valley. Just wait for it.
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