Wide open country stretched for what seemed like eternity. Though the rolling hills and flat prairies seemed uninhabited, there was evidence of life. Trails wound up and over the rising and falling grassy slopes, skirting clumps of sagebrush and dipping into coulees that promised a drink of water. The trails did not magically appear but were lifelines carved into the land.
My mind took another trail following the footsteps of my dad into the mountains. I loved hiking or backpacking into the wilds with him because he knew where each rocky path led. Many of the trails that have stood the test of time were first forged by wild animals that dwelt in the mountains. Some were blazed by men and women seeking a route where few human footsteps had fallen. Each had its own story of where it had been, where it was going, and what it had seen.
I cannot even begin to remember every trail I followed through the woods or into the mountains. Many adventures were found along the way – paths though virgin forests and stands of ancient wooden sentinels, cow trails to abandoned homesteads, exploring and playing along lazy winding creeks and mountains streams rushing over rocky beds, high trails above steep shale cliffs, mossy boardwalks through rain forests, stone steps leading to jade colored pools, and hearing tales of times gone by. Some of the best pathways led to the home of friends or family where the door was always open and a cookie with a cold glass of milk awaited.
All trails lead somewhere. Even as time fades, beaten paths are threatened by years of neglect and roots of overgrown trees. Still bits and pieces exist. Faint markers and blazes half swallowed by tree bark are evidence of life that once passed that way.
Yes, trails lead somewhere – if nowhere else but to my memories.
