Strands

     Of late, I have begun sifting through my backpacking memories, trying to sort them out one from another. I have now successfully identified a number of distinct strands, packages of images I can effortlessly recall. Here are a few examples: (1) fields of wildflowers, reds, oranges, yellows, whites, pinks, blues, and purples that carpet the ground and mountainsides, (2) joining with others at dusk, with a certain kind of religiosity, awaiting the arrival of  Venus in the evening sky, (3) slogging trail miles after trail miles, hour after hour, followed by the contentment of making a good camp, alongside a stream, catching, cooking, and eating trout, and then bedding down for a great night’s rest, (4) offloading a heavy pack and taking a long forested hiking break in the shade and soft breeze of tall lodgepole pines; (5) discovering a patch of my favorite wild flower, the Purple Aster, (6) sipping cool stream water on a hot day; (7) warm trail friendships; (8) making the apex of a climb after far too many false summits, (9) morning light on a quiet lake, fish rising on the first hatch,  (10) ferocious storms followed by calming rainbows, and lastly and most profoundly, (11) watching stars fall in late July, early August in the Wind River range of Wyoming.

     Each strand is an overlapping collection of wonderful memories waiting their re-showing in my reoccurring dreams.