Across the Scree

The approach is a long ridge that is narrow and rounded. It is like walking up a half-buried backbone. The water crossing is also treacherous – along a sheer ledge through the falls, its edges green with deceitful lichen.  It is easy to lose the trail there, for there are no tracks. The snow-melt continually washes the granite floor. It shines now with morning light on a fine polish.  Beyond the creek, a hundred feet or so above the last twisted scrub, the talus field climbs to the base of the cliffs where the remnants of the previous winter have managed to survive in their chilly shadow sanctuary.

There are many trails across the ragged scree – there is no best way. Even the wild things choose – perhaps by instinct – the path that best suits them.  The black bear, elk, mountain goat; the chipmunk – each takes a different path from shelter to sustenance, from bed to bread and wine.

The mountain pass lies ahead. I was told that where it goes, the walls are close and steep and the sandy floor is covered with the sign of many different creatures. That is the place where all the trails come together.

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Ps 143:10