Reminiscence

Day 335: There is a punchline to this story, so no fair reading ahead!

September is a time of reminiscence for me. It was always my favorite time to head into the backcountry, map in hand and following the compass bearings which led me to destinations not accessible by trail. I'd plan ever so carefully, watching for that elusive weather window of five to seven days, willing to take a chance on getting wet going out or heading in but wanting dry weather for further explorations from a central camp. It came regularly but unpredictably, sometimes early in the month, sometimes late. I often found myself waking to heavy frost outside the tent and once, an overnight low of fifteen degrees. But the days were glorious! As soon as the sun crept over the horizon rim, the crisp rime turned into dewy diamonds, sparkling in the slanting light. From camp, I'd set off with a day kit and my trusty map and go searching for waterfalls, tarns, hidden cols, mountain peaks, and I'd find autumn's wildflowers, snow patches lingering from the previous winter, frogs, polliwogs and rocks I had to name. The best days of my life came in September, alone in the wilderness, but for peregrine falcons overhead and grey jays in close proximity. Best among these places were the high rocky summits and open meadows where I could look out on acres and miles of unpeopled land, where I could feel my spiritual roots reaching deep into the fragile alpine soil. I would bathe in cold, pure water sprung fresh from the mountainside, and dry myself as nature intended, bare to the afternoon sun. Those September days were my restorative, my medicine, the thing which put the concerns of daily life in proper perspective. I breathed in a renewal, and let the world's trivialities slide from my shoulders. I became a part of the natural world, conscious verbal thought dismissed from mind, simply being in the moment.

Though those days are past me now, the emotions and the sensations surround me when September's light is on the hills. As fresh in my mind as if I saw them this morning, these Gentians, the last flowers of the alpine season and my favorite, bloomed 35 years ago. The photo is a scanned slide from my archives.