Mountain Musing

My breath escaped like puffs of smoke from the old single-lung John Deere tractor on my childhood farm. That thought gained credence as a spruce grouse ushered in first light with a hollow-log warmup from a nearby lodgepole thicket.

I yawned and sat up, unzipping the sleeping bag to the waist. It was barely half-light here below the cliffs. A horse shifted at the hitchline, and its buddy nickered softly from beyond. I yawned again and glanced at the meager woodpile gathered the evening before.

That limestone ridge no longer needed all the growing luminance for its own magnificence, allowing some to escape to the sage- and bunchgrass-covered hillock below. Even lower, mirror-like beaver ponds reflected the mountain's florescence. Stunning! AbsoIutely stunning reflection! Then a rainbow trout flopped a bullseye on the exact same mirror ridge I studied.

The loose horse hopped away in its hobbles, bell tinkling and its buddy whinnied and shuffled at the hitchline in frustration.

I slipped on out of the bag's satin lining and pulled on my jeans, trying to prove that all men don't always get into their trousers one leg at a time. Then bare of foot, I stumbled to the ring of stones marking our fireplace and bent to kindle small twigs into a tiny blaze. Larger sticks wrought a larger fire, and I hung a soot-blackened pot filled with water over the flames.

So began another tough day at my office.