Frosty Breath

God's creation is amazing.  This past weekend I spent time in the "high mountains".  High mountains as in thick, fresh air.  High mountains as in views of splendor where tree tops dot the horizon and birds sing a chattery alarm.  We set out from our pickup.  It was dark.  It was cold and damp.  The ground was covered with wet grass, bent over, tops touching the ground as if to say they were happy to lay down as Fall approaches.  Tired from the hot sun.  Tired of low moisture.  Just tired and ready for a change of season. 

Making our way through a creek, up and over the first ridge, the day was starting to lighten.  In the deep forest, the light comes from above and works its way down the tall, majestic timber.   My son and I went up toward the bluffs, high on the hill while my "fine figure of a man" took the low spot.  As we increased our elevation, the light was filtering to the ground.  No match for his long strides, young lungs, he would stop and wait for me.  Honor.  Such honor for his momma. 

High on the hill is just a description.   So high on this steep mountain ridge that I felt like the tree tops were looking us in the eye, waving to us.  Looking over the top of this tall timber was only surpassed by looking across the deep canyon to the mirroring of the sister side and realizing the vastness of our world.   I asked Trevor "how tall are these trees?"  "Probably 200 feet tall momma" he replied.  It seems as if they were dancing like nobody was watching, singing as if the words were passed from generation to generation.

The bluffs were sheer and craggie. The hillside steep and the forest floor deep with pine needles and shed branches. The benches timbered, gulches gurgled water to feed the thick brush and the rain turned to snow.  Quiet.  Only the breath of a worn out soul was audible. 

We sat beneath the bluff long enough for me to unlace my boots, fix my socks that wanted to create a blister, and re-lace.  Down and around we ventured.  In the next gulch, there was a spot where the hillside flatted into a benched canyon.  With rain pouring down, dripping down my rain hat, running toward the ground by way of my forehead, nose and chin, I was unable to take a picture of the most amazing tree I have ever seen.  Maybe it struck me amazing because of my journey.  Maybe it struck me amazing because of its stature and greatness under what I would term as a look of sorrow.  This tree was tall and seemed to slouch from the weight of the dead branches and green moss that covered it from the top of it's head to the tips of the branches nearly touching the forest floor.  How could a tree that seemed destined to topple over at any moment from deadness seem so sturdy and full of life?  A tree that stood tall under its years of adversity, under the cold winter snow and summer heat and continual high winds.   As we continued on around the hill, I was overwhelmed with a  feeling that this special tree knew a journey of love, blessings, sadness and sorrow.  I glanced over my shoulder several times at this new friend and as if to say "I'll be back".

I reflected on a poem that was in my devotional a few days prior.  It went:

I walked a mile with Pleasure,
She chattered all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow,
And ne'er a word said she;
But oh, the things I learned form her
When Sorrow walked with me.

For me, what seemed like a day of traditional hunting and hiking turned into a deep and meaningful morning with my boy in a forest of life.   So blessed.