On Hiking Alone

I took myself out to a favorite autumn spot. The sky was gray, the air cool. Sounds: magpie, Tonwsand Solitare, tree frogs, the swish and rustle of dry grass and leaves, the rush of water from a clear running creek. The scent: sharp with juniper and sage, one heavy with berries the other with its dried and spent blossoms. My emotions: gratefulness coupled with a kind of melancholy that comes to me in situations like these, where life exists without the push and pull of people, and time takes its time imprinting itself on tree rings and around the curve of rocks and eddies and into the soul of the soil. Layers upon layers. Tales written in stone and talus.

I took myself out and hiked up and down and thought the thoughts that come and go, moments punctuated by things heard and seen and all my wonderings. I am 63 years old and I found myself making mental lists of things I need to do, not one day but ‘one day soon’. Places to pitch a tent, mountains to climb, rivers to paddle. There is a tight relationship between my happiness and my ability to be in places like this. Surrounded by things untouched by human need. Which of course is ironic, since it is exactly my need that brought me to this place.

Three miles into the hike it began to rain. Hard drops fell on the dusty soil creating small craters which merged into rivulets that moved toward the stream. I walked on, rain falling from the sky, from the leaves, from the wings of a red tailed hawk that swooped over the rim rock walls. Its call a solitary note that held my attention and imagination and heart.