The night air is cool as the canyon slips by. Miles of sheer rock fly by. The water splashing over itself can almost be felt only a few meters below. The small motor pushes further and further, like a guided rocket. Small mountain towns are simply blinks of the eye behind the small windshield in the helmet. Centrifugal force pulls into the seat as the handlebars reach down closer and closer into the turns. In every way too soon, the dark bike sits next to the trailhead.
Changing out of the helmet and jacket is easy, but time is taken anyway. The altitude pulls the Milky Way in so far to say that it is trying to impersonate the Aurora Borialis. The stars climb all the way down to the horizon.
Once the helmet is off, the fleece is pulled on. It feels soft on the ears and neck. The pack is detached and readied. The jacket and helmet are tied back to the bike. The smell of leather traded for mountain pine trees, the trail beckons.
Once a minimal distance is covered, the pines leave only short flowers to keep company. Some bigger, some smaller, bits of granite push the winding trail from side to side. The moon chases up behind, acting like it wants the job of headlamp. It really is bright for being the middle of the night. The mountain slumbers peacefully underfoot.
As the trail steepens, sweat soaks through the fleece. Water tastes good. The step keeps increasing and the trail fades, giving way to bigger and bigger chunks of beautiful rock.
The east begins to awaken. Haste is a must. Legs burn. There is no sound. There is no warning. Eminence achieved, the gear is put down and unpacked. A brilliant pink sparks at the horizon. A harness is pulled on and the rope is slung. The pink spark grows into the tundra and brings that beautiful alpine glow over the waking mountain. Soon, that spark grows into a fire that lights up the sky. The deep green brush turns orange, yellow, and then back to green. The deep gray of the walls below pull through pink, orange and flow into their daily purple majesty.
The backpack slung and clipped, the rock begins its dance. The rope flails as descent occurs, cracks in the rock going this way and that. Each anchor goes by to give another chance to take more and more of it all in. A full thousand feet rises in above. The scree field comes up underfoot lightly and the rope is pulled and re-coiled.
The half-mile walk around to the pond comes easily. The “built-in” seat in the rock feels nice this morning. Breakfast is laid out.
I am home.
profile!