The trail is short, almost nonexistent; its lack of definition indicating the solitude offered by this nook in the Rockies. By walking on rocks when I can, the faint trail when I can’t, I avoid disturbing the meadow more than my presence requires. Time in this setting, time in similar settings allows me to recognize my companions. Yellow columbine, moss campion and other wildflowers welcome me back. A ribbon fall, feeding a small marsh, ties the headwall to the valley floor. Water silently seeps from the marsh. Following the path of the glacier, it forms a small creek. Sometimes visible, sometimes running beneath rocks, it babbles downhill; its voice is with me.
The sound of the creek blends with my thoughts, keeping me in the moment. I barely notice its presence, its soothing quality. Reaching the short flat before the marsh, its voice fades, the silence pulling me back. My head pivots towards the sound of a lone rock rattling from above. Looking down the cirque, the blue of Lake Agnes offsets green on steep slopes, channeling my vision towards the Rockies beyond.
A light breeze cools my skin; serenity permeates. I do not feel alone, I am part of this small universe. If I believed in reincarnation I would believe I came from the mountains. Like the glacier, forced away from these rocks, forced downhill, but always maintaining contact, I am with these mountains, I am home, I never truly leave.
I will shrink with age, my movement will slow—when it ceases; I will be at peace, I will be here.