I awoke to the soothing song of the ice-cold mountain stream as it leapt from rock to rock on its journey to the plains. Everything else was still. The tent sagged from the moisture that rested on top. It was so quiet I could almost hear each little drop of water that beaded up and fell. I gently pulled back the flap of the tent and was greeted with the sun already smiling as it approached the valley. It was only 5:00 am but the day was anxious to make its grand entrance and shake us from our rocky beds. I emerged from the tent that shook just enough to shower me with the night’s dew.
Soon the fire was started. Flames licked the sky as tiny sparks shot out from the burning wood and flew into the air. A kettle filled with freshly dipped water from the creek was placed near the fire to get hot. Campers emerged from the tents and lean-to, some clad in long johns, some already shimmied into jeans and wiping sleep from their eyes. They backed up to the fire then found a rock or stump to sit on for their first tin mug of hot Tang or coffee.
Rocks that served as burners had already been strategically placed within the fire ring. Before long, our breakfast was cooking. A few Snow Under the Mountain roots were sizzling in the skillet over hot embers. Those were shifted to the edge of the pan to make room for the hotcake batter. Squeeze butter and honey sat on ready to be slathered over fresh hot hotcakes. We ate our breakfast and discussed where our path would lead us that day and whether or not we would have fresh trout for supper. I never depended on that and carried a supply of other supper options. You eat what you catch, you know, and usually that was nothing.
Fresh cool air filled our lungs and our spirits as we packed up our gear and started up the trail edged with bluebells. Some of the path was smooth and carpeted with evergreen needles. Other parts of the trail were rocky, steep, and jagged. Narrow wildlife trails led through alpine meadows donned with lupine, sticky geraniums, harebells, penstemon, Brown-eyed Susans, and an occasional Indian paintbrush among other wildflowers. As we hiked deeper into the mountains, alpine lakes that looked like they were formed from a giant’s footsteps came into view. They sparkled as a myriad of diamonds danced in rhythm with the breeze on the surface of water.
The sun sank lower in the sky, giving the signal to set up camp. We pitched our tents and started the fire to cook the evening meal. It is a good thing we did not rely solely on the fishermen’s skill (or luck). We managed to salvage enough from the campers’ packs to supplement the meager catch of the day. With the meal finished, everything was washed up and food items hoisted high in a tree to avoid any unwanted furry guests. The evening fire was a time for reflection on the days behind us and expectations for the morrow. Retelling of the day’s events grew with vivid animation and laughter. As the fire died down so did our energy. We banked the embers to keep enough spark alive for the morning kindling.
As the last light faded behind the mountains, I bid the day farewell. With a smile of satisfaction, I pulled back the flap of the tent and crawled into my rocky bed as the mountain stream sang its evening lullaby.
The pictures are from 4 generations