Drop All Expectations

I should have this Buddhist slogan tattooed on my arm, because I never seem to remember that it doesn’t work to anticipate something—either good or bad—because we don’t know what will happen.

Two weeks ago, I hiked to Bierstadt Lake (below) in Rocky Mountain National Park. At this time of the year, I’m usually engulfed in a sea of glowing aspens—not just on the trail but looking up the valley toward Bear Lake: whole hillsides of green, yellow, orange and red. But two weeks ago, the aspen were still green, with only patches of color way up high.

After the momentary disappointment of not seeing a rich panorama of colors, I still enjoyed the hike, especially the views of the gray, granite peaks across the valley and in the sharp cirque to the west. I looked forward to being at the lake, to sitting among the autumn grasses on the shore and eating my trail mix and apple. Possibly, like the previous time, a moose might step out of the woods and into the lake. But when I got to the lake, I saw an ominous dark gray cloud to the west, and soon I was being pelted by hail and cold rain. I made a hasty retreat back down.

This week, I was looking forward to hiking one of my favorite aspen trails in Rocky Mountain National Park. The park isn’t known for colorful displays, as its hillsides are covered mostly with conifers. But the Hollowell Park trail was logged before the park was established, leaving an empty gash for aspens to thrive along the creek. I love the combination of the luminous aspen canopy over the trail and below the dark water and boulders, many emblazoned with yellow leaves. Hiking this trail has become an autumn ritual for at least 20 years.

But halfway up the path, the aspen trees had already dropped their leaves. I grumped along for awhile before remembering the teaching I had learned: stay open to whatever is in front of you. Soon I started noticing the hillside across the creek (above), full of golden grasses backlit by the sun, and the thick trunks of the pine trees—dark shadows among the golden light.

And yet, still I hurried up the trail, eager to get to the large grove of aspens whose trunks were thin and tall, reaching up to the sky. But when I got there, the trees were dead. I had forgotten that the wildfire two years ago had come through here. Or maybe I had hoped that the trees weren’t totally destroyed in the fire and that new leaves would have sprouted last spring.

So many times I’ve sat in this grove and let the brilliant light wash over me, tilted my head back to the tops of these trees, where the golden leaves fluttered against the brilliant blue sky beyond. But that experience is gone, and so I wanted to keep going, to find something else, but the trail had been flooded, so I had to struggle over downed trees and through gravel beds that had been washed down from the slopes where the trees and shrubs no longer held the ground in place since the fire.

I finally gave up, but before turning back, I noticed that young aspen had sprung up among the dead trees in the two years since the fire. They were only 3 or 4 feet high, but they glowed among the dead trunks. It was a sign of life that I had nearly missed, because at first I only saw the loss of one of my favorite aspen groves. Let the light shine in.

Comments

[Sally Hanson]

So glad there was a sign of life👍‼️ So hard to watch our rituals disappear as nature is ravaged by fire 🔥
So much of that in CA❗️ But I have watched the seasons move on and rejuvenation begin👍❣️

[shoneysien]

Thank you. I needed to read exactly this today. Those little aspens, sigh, what an amazing thing nature is.