Journey to the Lake

            On one of my days off, when we took care of Magic Sky Girl Scout Ranch in The Rocky Mountains of Colorado, Laura and Juniper went to town. Amanda stayed home to write. I soaked up morning sunshine, then walked back into the house. Amanda looked up from her writing and said, “I haven’t done much yet, and I don’t feel like doing much.”

            I said, “Then let’s walk to the lake.” It’s generous to call it a lake, because it’s as small as a pond, but it looks like a lake. Dramatic granite cliffs rise from two sides and huge granite boulders stick up from the water.

            The Rocky mountains gave us a warm day, perfect for being out and saying goodby to summer.

            Deer and elk browse through the ranch, but they don’t deplete the flora. Several kinds of grass had headed up with seed and turned golden, yellow, and tan. Amanda and I walked on trails and on the dirt road, because seeds that grab clothing and resist all but the most determined, time-consuming efforts to remove them waited aggressively among the grasses.

            Granite ridges rose above us. Large granite boulders of imagination-stimulating shapes rested around us. A grey boulder looked like a very large seal among grasses, aspen trees, fir and pine trees, patiently waiting for waves to break. A rock among many rocks in the ridge above the trail looked like a giant frog wearing a small cap and looking with hope toward the sky.

            Small shrubs grew from cracks in the rocks. Leaves on wild shrubs were turning from summer green to bright red for autumn. Aspen trees shaded their leaves from green toward yellow.

            Granite, grey from a distance, resolved to shades of grey, brown, pink, red, white, and silver up close, with many colors of lichen rooted into the stone. Erosion left fantastic shapes, caves, tunnels, and secret places where grass, shrubs, and trees grew, where humans could sit, sheltered from the wind, and draw, write, or imagine anything possible to imagine.

            Our trail meandered through grasses and forbs, myriad shades of white, tan, pale green, and gold. Chipmunks, ground squirrels, marmots, and hundreds of insects, from too small to see to a dragonfly Amanda pointed to and said “That one is as big as a hummingbird.” inhabited the meadow. Small birds feasted on ripe seeds held ready for them and for next spring’s new plants.

            We walked by the lake. Two Clark’s nutcrackers flew down onto a granite boulder rising above wind-ruffled water. The grey, black, and white birds dipped their beaks into the water and raised their heads and swallowed. They flew up, over the granite cliffs, toward the sun. A raven flew above us and close above the granite cliffs, croaked its vibrating, wild sound, and flew out of sight. A second raven followed the first, its wings sounding against mountain air.

            I lay down on granite sand. Amanda sat on a rock close to me. She said, “I want to stay out overnight, here or in the woods somewhere, before it gets too cold, but Mama thinks it’s too dangerous.”

            Thoughts of possible dangers up here far from people circled lazily through my mind. Wild animals, so far from habitation, still followed dependably wild patterns. I couldn’t think of any significant dangers. I said, “I’ll talk to her about it. I think you’d be safe. We’ll see if we can come to an agreement.”

            Shade pushed sunshine across the surface of the lake and slowly climbed the cliff. I sat up and said, “I’d like to linger, but once the sun drops behind those mountains, it’s going to cool down fast. I think we should head for home.”

            We walked beside the water and studied the cliffs above us. We agreed part of the cliff was separating from the mother stone of the mountain. Some time between tomorrow morning and 2,000 years from now, the stone would fall into the lake. Amanda said, “Do you think there will be any warning?”

            “Seems like you could see it start to move, hear it, and feel the vibrations through the earth. We could wait here and see.”

            We wondered what lived in the water. Amanda said, “I’ve seen a lot of snails.” She took her shoes and socks off, waded out, and found two shells. We looked into the open ends, held them up, and looked at daylight through translucent shells. Amanda said, “Nobody lives there, anymore.”

            She saw a snail crawling across the sand underwater. “That one’s shell is too small. Do snails leave their shells and take larger ones?”

            “I don’t know.”

            She offered a larger shell, but the snail crawled by and climbed an underwater plant. Amanda handed the delicate, spiral shell to me. I let it dry and put it in my shirt pocket with the first one. Later, we would add it to our collection of parts of the wild world that we keep in the house for beauty and to remind us of the world outside. Amanda said, “I think it’s only hermit crabs that take larger shells. I think snails make new shells when they need them.”

            She dried her feet in warm air, put her socks and shoes back on, and we walked toward home. Amanda sang a wordless song of joy in autumn. The ennui of the day had evaporated under the influence of warm breezes, the wonders of myriad colors of fall, hundreds of forms of life, cold water and hot sunshine, evaporated under the influence of companionship, life, changing seasons, and the earth itself.