Mountain Freedom
Under
a luminescent alabaster pale full moon orb, an incongruent faded red stuck out
like the proverbial “sore thumb” among a verdant, lush evergreen-drapery
backdrop. Two hours earlier, Logan had unobtrusively parked the old Jeep as far
back in the copse of evergreens as he dared to challenge the steepness of the
granite mountainside, carefully sliding the once red hood under low,
overhanging pine-needle branches which reeked pleasantly of alpine-scented
freshness in the quickly descending dusk of purple-haze shadows gathering like
wraiths called from the grave at midnight haunting time. Lengthening greyish
fingers touched the lower limbs of one tree after another as the tenacious
reach slowly deepened to black, ensnaring the evergreens and finally devouring
their proud existence in impenetrable dark obscurities, the entire forest
becoming one in drab, melancholy gloom. The early risen orb already stood
directly overhead, its brightness obfuscating a usual star-studded display in
the black velvet abyss above the serene narrow valley setting. A silver sheen
reflected the eerie moonlight on the surface of the secluded small lake.
Upon
arrival at the southern entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park just above the
town of Granby on the Colorado River, Logan had driven to the tiny lake
situated at the base of the towering peaks which could be seen from the road
but whose far side disappeared into a deep ravine offering security and
solitude from any prying eyes of the public at large. On that far shore, he had
secreted his trusty transportation in the trees, hidden from the roadway. Also,
arriving late in the day precluded interruptions by the park’s city-dwelling
visitors as almost all had vacated the common for a night’s lodging in Granby
or had ascended the summit to retreat to the eastern edge of the forest in the
town of Estes Park. He had vacated Breckenridge about mid-day taking the
interstate from Frisco eastward until reaching Highway 9 on the Blue River,
then traversing north to his intended destination for a rejuvenating night’s
respite.
Before
full darkness settled in, coming quickly to the deep crevasse, the man had
retrieved his tent and sleeping bag from the Jeep, chose a camp location close
to the small lake, gathered stones to surround a tidy fire, ate a Granola
trail-mix bar while water from the pond came to a boil and had then enjoyed a
delightful pot of strong tea as the night shadows swallowed the dusk.
Long
before the heavenly searchlight above had covered half its allotted sky space
between the two towering mountains above him, Logan gave way to solitude in
deep, restful slumber. He would awaken with nature’s own alarm system at the
very first hint of a new-born day.
Sometime
during the darkness, long after the silver orb had vacated the dark opening of
sky on its westward journey to the blue Pacific, a clinking sound of rock
sliding and striking another stone stirred him to wakeful senses. Beyond the
lake, across the highway, somewhere a few hundred feet higher than his own
position, on the slope of the opposing mountainside, a nocturnal animal had
dislodged a rock causing it to cascade downhill. The errant sound brought Logan
to immediate consciousness; he listened intently. The slight disruption should
offer no immediate hazard or threat to his present location, but, it always
paid to be cautious. The man was savvy, filled with mountain expertise, no
novice and certainly not a tenderfoot greenhorn to nature and her independent
ways; experience had honed his skills to a razor’s edge.
Laying
quiet and breathing shallow and slow, Logan strained sensitive ears to the area
of the unanticipated sound. Then, further up the slope where the disturbance
had occurred, he detected the very faint “clink” of another stone upon stone
and heard the distinct yelp, ever so slight, of a coyote. Chuckling to himself
and dismissing any nightmare fantasy of a hungry grizzly bear on the prowl for
a tasty midnight “Logan-snack”, the man relaxed, shaking his head at an
overactive imagination. Sometime later, his assessment of the “danger” proved
his humor over the matter to be correct as the silver-grey wraith of the night
howled its plaintive song at a descending moon.
At
the first hint of dawn’s challenge to the night, darkness reluctantly receded,
each moment persistently pushing the black into full retreat as a new day won
the eternal battle. By the time wind stirred pine-scented air in the valley,
Logan had fired his camp embers back to life, dismantled the tent, neatly
folded and expertly rolled the sleeping bag and cached them in the waiting
Jeep, checking the vehicle to make sure nothing untoward had entered it during
the night. Again, that stupid worry-for-nothing attitude. He shook his head as
his dear mother’s perpetual warning rang in his ears as the “tape-of-life”
played: Be careful! To which admonition, he always replied, “Oh! For Pete’s
sake! Mom!” Then, he’d laugh at both of them and kiss her.
Once,
out Brice Canyon-way, while on a quest chasing antelope with his camera and
sketch book, he had gotten caught on a high plain as night beckoned; foolishly,
he found himself temporarily lost, unsure of the correct direction to take; the
sleeping bag made for a handy bed on the rocky ground. It had not been the
first time he had dreamed away the daylight and spent a cold night on some high
plains-desert floor as reward for absent-minded obfuscation.
Chasing
antelope and sketching natural arches, canyons, arroyos, rivers and mountains
in addition to deer, elk and the occasional black bear brought out the boy in
him and when adventure beckoned, which seemed to be “always”, he could, and,
did, often lose consciousness of time. Varied shadows on the strange landscape
provided the creative artist an inexhaustible source of scenes just begging to
be captured on film or drawing paper. There was no surprise in the fact that it
happened yet again. Aggravating! But, he’d make the most of it; like always!
Morning
found him lying on the desert, the wadded-up makeshift “bed” cast a few feet
aside and with a chill in his weary bones and kinks in places he hadn’t even
known he had. Disgusted with himself for allowing his enthusiasm to head-off
the ghosts of the plains, thus clouding his better sense the night before, he hastily
and negligently gathered the disheveled bag, angrily wrapping it an untidy ball
and threw it into the rear of the old red Jeep, laying a five pound flat stone
on it to hold it in place against the wind generated while he drove.
The
wraiths of the plains he sought had vanished in the night and were nowhere to
be sighted; they could be miles away. So he jumped into the trusty vehicle and
headed for civilization. A half hour later brought him to an intersection of
his direction of travel with a two-lane highway; Logan reckoned the nearest
town to be west and made a right hand turn onto the roadway, again cursing his
bad luck with the antelope chase and a cold night under the stars. So upset had
he been that he even forsook his morning tea in a hurried effort to get to a
town. He was hungry!
Still
early, the sun had been up about an hour, Logan spotted a tractor-trailer truck
coming down the highway, but at a safe enough distance for him to enter the
road ahead of it. His oversized, wide tires with deep tread and huge “lugs” on
their perimeter sang a deep humming tune on the concrete surface; annoying on
the pavement, but indispensable on the off-road, often sandy, terrain which he
frequented. After a half mile, or so, he noticed the semi coming up fast on him
from behind; taking a second nervous glance in the rearview mirror, it was only
about a hundred feet behind him. At sixty, that was uncomfortably dangerous.
Then,
the air horn on the truck blared three quick blasts and the driver flashed his
lights three times in rapid succession. Sticking out his left arm and waving
the tractor-trailer to pass, he got the shock of his life when his view in the
mirror caught sight of the reason for all the excitement.
Leisurely
stretched out on his untidy, wadded-up sleeping bag laid a huge rattlesnake
basking in the Utah morning sun while enjoying a delightful Jeep ride down
colorful Brice Canyon.
At
that very moment, in his burning ears, he could hear his beloved mother’s call:
Be careful!
Thus,
all these years later, Logan performed a vigilant search of his gear and
vehicle before setting out. He justified the caution with a realization that he
was getting older---and…wiser!
Having
filled the old coffee pot with crystal clear water from the pond, captured
liquid from snow-melt high on the summit of the mountains behind his camp,
Logan returned to the fire, found a comfortable sitting position, opened his
pack and removed two tea bags. These he expertly hung in the icy water, stirred
the coals once again, added a few dry sticks for fuel and waited for the water
to boil. Retrieving a trail bar of oats, nuts and cranberries, the man pulled
out his writing paper and a pencil. A bite of the breakfast bar reminded him of
how hungry he was and, also, of how much he had come to enjoy and appreciate
even the seemingly “little” things of life. Long ago, he had come to cherish
simple values; this understanding helped to hone his philosophy to practice
those values leading to sacred-virtue which prompted his letter.
He
wrote a brief note to his dear mother, telling her where he was, his intended
itinerary for the next week and that he planned to be home to Texas for her
birthday which, this year, would come a few days prior to the Thanksgiving Day
celebration. He promised to be there.
He
signed it: Love, Logan; then, dated the letter September 11, 2001.
With
the sheet of writing paper which contained his letter, he added a sketch of a
lake located at timberline on the mountain above his present location with a
herd of about two dozen elk coming out of the forest at sunset to water. The
hidden lake was about two thousand feet below the summit of Rocky Mountain
National Park visitors’ pinnacle, where he planned to be in about two to three
hours. Logan had made the sketch a few years earlier, in the early spring, when
he had traversed the park after visiting a friend who served as Professor of
History at the University of Colorado-Boulder. He folded the letter and pencil
sketch together and, after addressing an envelope, placed the contents therein.
When he came down the mountain on the east slope later in the day, he would
purchase a stamp in Estes Park and post the letter there; he shoved the package
into an inside zippered pocket of his well-worn, but warm, leather coat.
When
the water boiled, Logan poured himself a steaming cup for tea, opted for
another energy bar, leaned back to enjoy breakfast. There was no sense of
urgency, so he slowly savored the meager morning offering, taking in the vast
beauty of his surroundings, basking in the early sun which had reached down the
slope to touch his tidy encampment.
The
lake surface lay quiet, not a single ripple disturbing its glistening
polished-mirror surface which reflected the greenery of the stately trees and
picked up a hint of the cerulean abyss above. The reflecting pool of the lake,
encompassing about three acres of water surface, imaged a color palette ranging
from deep green-black to spruce-blue to smoky-grey to dancing gold aspen leaves
interlaced with vertical, stark white, mottled trunks. Picturesque nature! In
all her majesty!
About
a thousand feet above his location, yet still well below timberline, Logan
spotted a rock outcropping on the western slope of the mountain. In his
imaginative-artist mind’s eye, he could see the lone coyote of the night prior,
howling at the full moon from the perch just meant for such romanticized
notions. Making a mental note, he would sketch that very scene; but, later.
Hairpin
switchback narrow curves ascended the steep grade by way of a precarious two
lane blacktop mountain road with sheer walls nearly touching the roadway where
the granite had been blasted away allowing creation of the thoroughfare; while
the seemingly bottomless downhill side resulted in a cliff precipice deep
enough to literally take one’s breath away, the ascending sight presented an
upward tilt---straight up…forever!. Any traffic coming down the mountainside
found drivers naturally hugging the inside of the rollercoaster, opting to
damage his vehicle against the rock barrier rather than chancing a tumble into
the obfuscated deep abyss.
Fortunately,
for Logan, he had begun his ascent early enough in the day to preclude any
oncoming vehicles; vacationers were mostly city-people and this was their time
to relax and sleep in, recuperating from a year-long grind of drudgery to
escape for a few weeks. He did not expect to encounter more than a half dozen,
or so, cars once he reached the summit; there, at an elevation fifteen hundred
feet above timberline, at around the twelve thousand foot mark, he would park
in the lot and hike to the pinnacle on an asphalt walking path created to
encourage visitors to stay on the surface and off the fragile tundra. A half
mile from the parking area which offered restroom facilities, the walking trail
ended on the very summit in a jumble of cabin-sized boulders piled haphazardly,
one upon another, like play toys abandoned by some mythical giant child. They
seemed totally out of place on the barren, windswept mountaintop, but afforded
a view of breath-taking vistas. Nature’s beauty-crown---Personified!
On
the trek up the mountain, when he came out of a turn in such position that the
sky opened to his purview, the blazing bright Colorado sun temporarily blinded
his vision causing Logan to slow his progress to a mere crawl, for safety’s
sake; concentration became the keyword, demanding all his attention and skills.
Once he caught sight of a pesky hoary marmot scampering from atop a huge
boulder and then quickly disappearing into a hole between the rocks, probably
its den, for escape and security from the interloper; no other game presented
itself to his view on the two hour venture; he fully expected to see an array
of animals, once he reached tree line. Myriad marmots, for sure, probably some
mule deer, and, with luck, the elk herd might visit the secluded lake which he
could see once he reached his perch on the summit boulders.
He
had never seen antelope in the park as they preferred the open areas of the
high plains desert topography spread across the west from Kansas and Nebraska
on toward the setting sun; up Wyoming-way and in Montana; on several occasions,
he had spied Rocky Mountain Big Horn sheep but had never encountered those
magnificent animals in the central part of this colorful state. He had, once,
caught a fleeting glimpse of three Bighorn as he rounded a blind curve on a
mountain road in far northwestern Colorado.
Antelope
were the speedy wraiths of the high plains while Big Horn existed as faint grey
wisps of ghost-wraiths on the sheer cliff precipices of the very far reaches of
the highest peaks. These agile sheep could climb a vertical flat cliff-face
nearly as well as the fleet-footed goat; those bearded demons literally ran up
a perfectly smooth mountain side never missing a step.
Marvels
of the natural world never ceased to amaze his perceptions and Logan held a
deep and abiding consideration, affection, respect and gratitude for the
generous offering. It was this reverence he sought to capture and convey in his
artwork; that desire, he handily accomplished.
Approaching
timberline on his inexorable quest, trees began to clearly identify his
nearness as the vegetation began to thin in density and shorten in height; the
revelation began about the nine thousand foot altitude, very subtle in its announcement
which became definitely pronounced by his reaching an additional five hundred
feet in elevation. Getting decidedly sparser as Logan continued upward, all
trees disappeared at the ten thousand five hundred foot level as he passed tree
line at which point the tundra became evident. His eastward view displayed the
summit about a mile ahead; clear, cerulean blue entertained a dazzling yellow
orb of high intensity.
Logan
donned his old ball cap, then adjusted his mirrored sunglasses to dim the
glare. Sun light became four percent more intense for every thousand feet above
sea level. Still, in the open confines of the Jeep, he was intently aware of
the frigid temperature at these altitudes; he involuntarily shivered as he
zipped the coat tight and pulled up the collar. The wind was brisk.
Surmising
correctly that the parking area at the summit would be sparsely occupied had
proved to be correct; four sedans, three pick-up trucks, two towing campers,
each with Iowa plates, indicative of an extended family traveling together on
an annual vacation and a large, custom-painted RV which had been parked at the
far edge of the lot, probably to keep it from getting “door-dinged”, or, worse,
were the only vehicles present. Still early, the clock had not quite reached
ten a.m. The full onslaught of city-slicker wanna-be mountaineers would shortly
begin in a lethargic trickle, getting into full swing between the noon hour and
one in the afternoon; by four, the exodus would get underway, a small
percentage trekking on westward, backtracking the southern entrance route which
Logan had just traversed with fully ninety out of every hundred retracing their
tracks eastward, down the mountain to Estes Park and points southward. Logan
would be long on his way by then, outfoxing the horrid crowd both ways.
Choosing
a front row parking spot about ten slots from the restrooms, he maneuvered the
Jeep past the vacancy and backed in, facing south and affording him a fine view
of impressive Long’s peak, stretching some fourteen thousand-plus feet into the
blue heaven expanse. Exquisite!
There
he sat for a full fifteen minutes, taking in the spectacular vista-view.
Incredible!
Logan
had spent a bit better than half of his thirty-six years in the Rocky
Mountains; he never tired of the adventure; each day chock full of unexpected
events, enough to fill a lifetime.
Grabbing
the half empty water bottle from the drink holder on the dash, he fished
another un-opened plastic container from his old cooler strapped in behind the
passenger seat; the second one he secured in his left jacket pocket for later
consumption; the first he held onto.
As
Logan exited the vehicle, he retrieved his sketch pad and several pencils and
his camera.
After
utilizing the facilities, he paused near a trash can and drained the liquid
contents of the half-finished water bottle. When he tossed the empty vessel
into the receptacle, he absently took notice of a dark green sedan pulling in
next to his Jeep. Dismissing the incident without further thought, he thrust
his hands into the jacket pockets and headed up the gentle slope of the trail.
At
random points spaced about one quarter distance each of the total to his
intended destination, Logan paused to do a three hundred and sixty degree slow
rotation to take in the beauty of the peaks surrounding him, snapping a few
photos for future reference for sketches.
On
his second stop as his revolution brought his vision back to the parking lot,
Logan caught sight of a man and boy just beginning the ascent; apparently they
had arrived in the green car he had observed, earlier. The boy, about twelve,
or so, appeared to be severely overweight and the man, probably the boy’s
father, had covered about a hundred feet up the slope, ahead of the youngster.
The man kept turning around and yelling something to the child which Logan
could not decipher at the distance and with a steady breeze interfering with
the words as they came to his position in a muted, garbled fashion. The father
was motioning in an exaggerated manner and it was quite obvious that he was
coaxing the boy to hasten his climb. Logan shook his head.
The
better part of a half hour later, Logan reached the base of the jumble of huge
boulders at the end of the trail and turned to view the surrounding vista; the
agitated father had reached slightly beyond the half-way point of the climb,
but the obese child had not yet come to the first quarter marker. The father
continued his wild gyration antics as he impatiently waved the boy forward; the
kid’s face, even at the distance to Logan, was beet-red.
Stepping
off the end of the blacktop trail and onto a well-worn path etched in the
tundra between the massive boulders at the base of the huge jumble, Logan began
his ascent to the summit, about thirty feet above his present location. Once on
top, he took in the circle of mountain peaks on every point of the compass. On
his second rotation, he snapped myriad pictures of the incredible vista; Long’s
Peak, to his immediate south, towered over its domain.
A
frigid breeze born in the northwest and streaming over the snow covered peaks
caught his eye and forced a tear to escape the deep blue, crystal orbs; Logan
wiped at the inconvenience with the back of his gloved hand.
“Damn!”
He breathed the curse in a whispered lament.
Then,
in self-confession of his demonic transgression, added, shaking his head, “You
old fraud! Are you ever going to get over her? Or,” he wondered, “when are you
ever going to do something about that particular annoyance?”
He
smiled. “Annoyance!? Certainly. Yes! Indeed! But, not an unpleasant
contemplation.”
Suddenly,
Logan felt warm as he flushed, savoring the memory. “Damn!” Again!
Continuing
to chastise himself within his mind, he admitted that the wind might have
precipitated the crying tear betrayal, but, the beauty of this vista, one of
his very favorite points of perspective for reflection, brought forward his
secreted love and admiration for his Mary Helen who, somehow, managed to remain
within his subconscious until some emotional interference would propel her lovely
memory into his conscious thoughts.
Must
be “Love!” He laughed at his absurd wonderings.
Again,
Logan shook his head and wiped away another bothersome tear from a cold cheek.
She was married with two kids living somewhere in southern California, probably
enjoying the “great adventure” of life with some successful, bronzed hunk,
wrapped comfortably in the “Golden glow” of eternal sunshine, satiated in the
impossible dream. Hell! Logan doubted if the delightful beauty would even
remember his name, or him. Just another hopeless-romantic. A dreamer!
And,
about: “Doing anything about his pre-occupation? Well? In a word: No! At least,
not today---and, honestly…probably not in this world or in this life. He shook
his head a third time.
“She
could: Wait!” He decided for the thousandth time. “And, so could he; he’d have
to!”
The
disconcerting reverie was broken by movement below his position as he caught
sight of the disgruntled man coming up the trail behind him, the boy was
nowhere in sight; probably obscured from his own purview by the angle of the
rocks on which Logan stood.
Finally,
Logan glimpsed the boy, struggling for breath and obviously freezing cold in
his short sleeves and short pants making an effort to close the last twenty
feet of his trek to reach the base of the summit boulders.
Finding
a comfortable south-facing seat where he could rest his back against a boulder
in a little three-sided pocket, of sorts, Logan settle in to enjoy the view
while he drank fully half the contents of his secreted-water in a bottle,
always cognizant to keep well-hydrated. After a few minutes, he opened the
sketch pad and began a drawing which etched Long’s Peak in the background with
lovely Miss Mary Helen’s face superimposed in the foreground.
Ah!
Memories! Sweet memories!
A
pleasant reverie and solemn solitude were harshly interrupted when whining
complaints assaulted Logan’s ears as the father and son ascended his private
precipice domain.
“Come
on! Donnie!” The oldest of the pair nettled.
Then,
further grousing at the boy, “If you’d lose some of that gut, you could keep up
with me! Jeez! Come on! And, don’t start crying and complaining like your
mother, again!” He paused.
Then
added, “I’ll be so glad to get you back to the Springs. Hurry up! Will you?”
Logan
watched as a bald head, shading bright red from the frigid wind, biting cold
and intense sun, topped the boulder just off to his left; the man could not
observe Logan from that position.
Not
even bothering to view the spectacular mountain vista laid before him as today’s
blessing, the man paced an agitated small space of a circle as he moaned and
complained toward the approaching youth, still nowhere to be seen in Logan’s
purview
“Jesus!
Donnie!” The father finally begged. “Get your fat...behind, up here.”
The
boy, out of breath and exhausted, came into o view to Logan; tears stained
plump cheeks.
“Damn!
Quit crying!” The man implored. Shaking his head in disgust. “We’re here.
Finally. Isn’t this what you wanted? Now, enjoy this…” he paused, nearly beside
himself with anger.
Then,
continuing in an obvious effort to control his emotion, “…this---view! Jeez!
I’m freezing! It’s colder than your mother’s heart; if that’s even a
possibility.”
As
the young man struggled to stand on the boulder, somewhat shaky from cold and
near exhaustion, not to mention an unrelenting badgering by the elder, the
father threw up his arms in abject defeat, almost yelling at his discomforted
son.
“Sherry
told me not to make this trip with you this year. Said you were totally out of
shape, like your mother, and that I’d be miserable if I brought you. But, Oh!
No! I’m way too smart to listen to her. Brother!” He exclaimed as Donnie tried
to catch his breath, breathing hard, tears freely flowing while the boy
continually wiped at them in a futile effort to stem the tide.
A
noticeable slump came to the father’s shoulders as a wave of guilt washed over
him.
Placing
a hand on his son’s shivering shoulder, the man tried to sound sympathetic and
consoling, but, he just couldn’t quite pull it off and instead, sounded even
further condescending.
“You’re
freezing,” he offered. Rubbing his own bare arms, he concluded, “So am I.”
After
a pause, as Donnie seemed to get better control of himself, his father
continued. “Look. I’m going to head on down. I’ve got a drink in the glove box
and I’m freezing my tail off up here. You take your time; get a good look all
around, enjoy yourself. When you’re done, satisfied with your little adventure,
come on down to the car; I’ll be waiting; with the heater on”
Donnie
gave his old man a vacant stare; the dad shook his head in disgust and
retreated off the boulder and out of sight to Logan. The boy knew his dad would
finish off the already partially drank bottle and be dead drunk and sleeping by
the time Donnie got back to the car. Be lucky if he didn’t get killed running
off the mountain on the way back to Estes Park or on the return trip home to
Colorado Springs. Donnie was considering what life might be like without his
dad when a voice caught him unawares, startling the boy so that he visibly
jumped, then quickly surveyed his surroundings for the source of the eerie
wraithlike utterance.
“Hey!
Boy!” Came startling, unexpected words; shortly the boy caught sight of a man
rising out of the boulder field. First he noticed a worn baseball cap growing
from the rocks, just to the boy’s right side; then a man’s face and finally a
black leather motorcycle-type jacket complete with streamers of leather fringe
flowing in the breeze. The boy stared, unbelieving of his eyes.
“Come
on down here with me, son. Out of the wind.” The man reached his hand toward
the lad who hesitantly, then, reluctantly, took several tentative steps toward
the offered assistance.
The
kid grabbed hold, jumped off the boulder and joined the stranger; his goose
bumps on plump, naked arms lessened somewhat as he avoided the harshness of the
stiff, chill breeze.
“Quite
a view! Isn’t it?” The leather jacket-man offered, smiling. He was removing the
coat.
“By
the way, I’m Logan,” the man introduced himself.
“Yeah!”
The youth responded with an easy smile. “Beautiful! Just beautiful! I’m
Donnie.”
Wrapping
the warm jacket around the shivering boy, Logan zipped it tight and put his
baseball cap on the boy’s head, then handing the youth his leather gloves; with
the kind offerings in place, Donnie looked somewhat warmer, already.
“Pleased
to make your acquaintance, Donnie.” Logan acknowledged.
Then,
“Well worth the effort of the climb, wouldn’t you say?” He asked, viewing the
vista.
The
boy smiled. “Yes, sir! Logan.” He answered by way of recognition. “Sure is
beautiful!”
Logan
fished the water bottle from the pocket of his coat now snugly comforting the
youth; he removed a granola bar, also. Offering the boy the water, he nodded in
encouragement.
Donnie
accepted the drink and drained half the remaining contents in one continuous
gulp before taking a break, all the while eyeing the energy bar which Logan
handed to him.
“Thanks!”
The boy offered, ripping open the foil package, then devouring the treat in
three quick bites followed by fully half of the remaining liquid in the plastic
bottle; he wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, huddling deeper
into the warmth of the leather jacket.
Logan
resumed his seat, his back comfortable against the boulder; Donnie followed
suit. Once situated, the boy slowly took in the surrounding view.
“Long’s
Peak!” Logan opened, staring at the pinnacle piercing a cerulean abyss.
“After
you warm up, some,” he continued, “climb back up on top of this boulder field
and take in the full three hundred and sixty degree view. Like being on top of
the world!”
“Yeah!”
Replied Donnie. “I caught some of it on the way up here.” He looked away,
obviously embarrassed and trying to disguise the discomfort caused by his
father’s behavior.
Logan
understood and looked past his guest, not wanting to intensify Donnie’s
discomfort.
“Sometimes,
adults can be a real pain,” he offered.
When
the boy glanced at him, Logan added, “Especially parents.” The youth smiled at
that.
“You
happen to have any more treats,” Donnie blurted, now not embarrassed, at all.
Logan
laughed at the boy’s youthful enthusiasm, pointing to the jacket.
“I
think you’ll find a chocolate bar with almonds in it in the right front
pocket.”
In
short order, Donnie had retrieved the candy bar, unwrapped it, and chawed off a
third of its length; his expression displayed total pleasure and satisfaction
as he chewed.
Pacing
himself before attacking the remainder of the sugary treat, the boy took a sip
of water.
Swallowing,
he gave Logan a questioning stare; the man waited.
“You,
uh, heard what my dad said to me?” He asked, openly.
Logan
nodded. “Yeah!” He confessed. “You all came up on my position, kind of
unexpected. I couldn’t help but hear the conversation. Sorry!” He apologized.
“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“No!
That’s okay,” the boy replied, pausing as though considering whether to
continue.
Finally
resolving the internal conflict, the boy said, “I only see him for two weeks in
the summer; I live in Colorado Springs with my mom.” He smiled, “We get along
great!”
Logan
nodded, listening, realizing the boy had something on his mind.
“Dad
left three years ago,” Donnie continued. “Got a job over in Salt Lake.”
Donnie
eyes drifted off to Long’s Peak, but he did not seem to focus on the spectacular
mountain as he continued the explanation, seemingly more to himself, rather
than this stranger.
“After
he got settled, mom and I were supposed to join him, there. But, the move kept
getting delayed, he called less and less, wouldn’t answer our calls to him,
never came home, not in a full year. Missed our birthdays, Christmas, their
anniversary. Just seemed like we died, to him.
“One
day I came home from school; mom was home. She usually worked until five, so
that was very unusual. She was sitting at the kitchen table; her eyes were all
red; she had been crying.
“I
asked her what was wrong; she handed me the letter she was holding; it was from
a lawyer over in Utah. It said Dad wanted a divorce; there were some legal
papers in it and mom was supposed to go see a lawyer in Denver, at his office,
sign everything, there, and it would all be handled without costing her
anything, she’s get the house and custody of me.” He paused.
Collecting
his thoughts, then throwing a stone over the edge, in anger, Donnie continued.
“He
must have hit the big time,” he said, laughing. “Mom got three grand a month
plus another thousand for my upkeep; more money than we had ever seen. Didn’t
make us rich, by any stretch, but it made us comfortable. Mom kept her job and
we stayed in our house.
“The
first summer I went to visit Dad for my two week stay, I learned that he had
this hot, young chick living with him.” He made a face, wrinkling his nose as
though he smelled a bad odor. “Sherry!” He almost spat the name in abject
disgust. “First class ‘Bi…’” he trailed off without finishing the word. “That
woman is impossible. Runs him ragged; never satisfied; never happy. I left
after five days; couldn’t stand the sight of her; he got on my nerves, too.”
Donnie
took a deep breath, like the telling of his horror took a huge toll on him; he
swallowed another taste of the tepid water; that seemed to revive his resolve,
if not his spirits.
“They
had a new baby last year at Christmas. I was supposed to go see it and visit
with my dad; I refused.” He tossed another stone into oblivion, this time,
absent the outrage.
“So,
he asked me what he could do to make it up to me. Finally, I said we’d meet for
my two week summer visit and take a trip through the Rockies here in Colorado.
Lived here, in the Springs, all my life and had never been to this Park,
before.” He shook his head.
“Anyway,
I took a bus to Salt Lake so we could drive back here and spend some ‘quality’
time together, on the trip.” Donnie toyed with a third stone, rolling it in his
pudgy hand, but not flinging it like the first two.
“But,
as soon as I got there, ‘Sherry’ started in; cussing him for leaving her alone
with a squalling brat and cussing me for coming to ruin her ‘perfect’ life! She
hates me.”
His
round face flushed red. “Jeez!” He exclaimed, exasperated as he angrily hurled
the rock into oblivion. He shook his head as though trying to cast out a
nightmarish demon.
Namely,
Logan correctly surmised: Sherry! The evil “B”-stepmother!
“Dad
got a phone call from ‘the witch’ yesterday; I don’t know what she said, but
he’s in a big rush to get me home to the Springs; says he’s got to get back to
Salt Lake, immediately. We’ve only been gone for five days. Guess this vacation
is over!” He concluded, derisively.
“Take
another swig of that water, kid,” Logan said; the boy did as instructed.
“Look,”
the man began, “I don’t meddle where I don’t belong; usually doesn’t ever do
any good, anyway. But, if you’d like, I can have a friendly little chat with
your dad; maybe explain a bit of your side of it. You just never know, but,
that decision is for you to make.”
Determination
in the boy’s eyes told the tale, even before the words were spoken.
“Won’t
do no good.” Donnie concluded. “He already knows my side of it and how I feel.”
Shrugging
his shoulders in resignation, he stated, flatly, “He made his bed; let him lay
in it.”
Obviously,
the boy was despondent, just a short step on a slippery slope from depression.
They
sat in silence, then. A man and a boy, together, yet, each alone with his own thoughts.
Logan
had lived a near-perfect life, nearly forty years of pleasureful adventure,
thus far; his spirit soared, was satiated. He felt sorry for the youth; none of
the disaster was his fault; fate had dealt him a rotten hand. Few ever live a
fairy tale existence; still, each had to play his own hand.
Donnie
had just begun his life; the world was a big unknown, full of promise even
though the boy had been handed a shaky start. He felt sorry for himself; until
he conquered that excuse with intense resolve to make the most of his
circumstances and move forward, things would not, could not, get better. When,
and, if, he took that step, then, the boy would fill a man’s shoes.
Logan
suddenly let his thoughts come out as spoken words, not fully intending to
launch a sermon on the young man’s vulnerable, tender, ragged emotional state,
but, with his own tattered feelings exposed to some realities where he seldom
allowed himself to tread, it just came out.
“Donnie,
my friend!” Logan began in an effort to console the boy while salving his own
tattered feelings in the process. “People sometimes find themselves in
situations they might rather choose to avoid. The secret, if there is, indeed,
one, is to make the best of whatever might come your way. Forget about making
others do your bidding; they have free will and choice in all matters of life,
just like you do. And, in perfect honesty and all truthfulness, think candidly
about how much worse off other people might be “If” you could determine their
outcomes.”
He
paused to let that sink in. Then, “Might be something worth interrogative
contemplation.”
Donnie
turned to face the man, eager for more of the worthwhile information.
“Everybody
gets to follow their own dream; their conscience; make their own discoveries and
decisions on issues. A lot of the evil of the world is resultant of people who
are dissatisfied with their conclusions and where they find themselves.
‘Victims’ can be as easily ‘self-created’ as resultant of another’s actions;
what we can do is not be like them;
learn to make the best of any situation; determine our own destiny.”
The
man laughed an easy, genuine humor. “Hell! Boy! I’m the very last person ought
to be dispensing advice on life; four decades and I can’t honestly say that I
can even take care of myself. Take this advice
with the proverbial grain of salt; keep in mind that it’s probably exactly what
you paid for it.”
Logan
considered terminating his lecture, then, as was his want and reflective of the
manner in which he had always lived, he threw caution to the wind; the boy
could determine what to take from the offering and discard the rest. The man
plunged ahead with his understanding.
“Dare
dream big, then, even, bigger! Be afraid only to dream too small; there would
be an un-forgivable transgression against life’s process. Reach for the
stars---and…beyond! Well beyond! Challenge life; especially your own beliefs;
be brutally honest. If they can’t stand the scrutiny of honest examination,
find some that can’t be shaken. Personal, religious, relationships,
business---whatever. Refuse to believe the lies even, and, especially when
everybody else does. Run like Hell from those idiots. ‘What other people think
of me is none of my business’. Be ruthless!”
He
laughed, again. “Son, you’re probably looking at the world’s oldest real-life
Hedonist.
“Follow
your dreams. Slide on the rainbow and see where it leads. Live! Chase
butterflies just for the fun of trying to catch the quintessence of their
myriad color, the reality of true beauty---Personified! Rope a flying unicorn
and take a mythical buck-a-roo ride through the eternal cosmos. That sun up
there is ninety-three million miles away and it looks like we could just reach
out and touch it. Those billions of galaxies, trillions of stars, black holes,
Mandelbrot’s ‘fractal geometry’ theory, all of it, well beyond belief, much
less, imagination.”
He
paused, noticing Donnie’s curious expression. Logan smiled at his own private
joke.
Then,
continued. “Yeah. Benoit is a friend of mine; a Frenchman; look him up on the
net.
“That
eternal expanse out there is where God
exists, son; and, in here.” His fingertip touched his chest at the level of his
beating heart. “Come here on a clear full-moon night and you can reach the
glow, run a finger through the delight and savor the sugar-sweet of lunar ice
cream.”
Donnie
swallowed, hard; ice cream was his very favorite; he was already learning to
dream.
“And,
don’t forget to ‘Love’ and be loved, all along the way.
“It’s
one fantastic journey, my friend. Don’t dare miss it!” He intoned with effect.
“The
very best thing we all can do is Good!
To one another through pure, unconditional Love!
For each other. That sounds difficult, but, all that is required is commitment
and honesty.”
He
laughed, yet again. “Of course, being a little less narcissistic aids the
process considerably; a great many people have real issues when they have to
face the reality that life does not revolve around them or exist only for their
pleasure.
“Trails
crisscross our lives. Some are Interstates that carry the majority of the
population, all going ‘somewhere’ in a big hurry, many never knowing the How? Or Why? Of the journey and too preoccupied to bother to ask. Then,
some find the four lane roads to the cities, two lane highways to the burgs and
rural communities. For a few intrepid adventurers wide paths open for
exploration where few have tread before. Then, there are a very few real
drifters, like me.
“I
chose the nearly indecipherable ‘traces’ through the jungle; those indistinct,
non-descript whispers of direction which can, and, often do, lead to
spectacular adventurous destinations.”
Logan
gestured to Long’s Peak. “Like the glorious splendor laid before us right here.
“Take
notice of the gift of Nature, the beauty, the symmetry, congruity, logic,
purpose, freedom, liberty of the offering. It’s ‘free’ for the enjoyment, ‘if’
we seek, respect and partake.”
He
gave the wide-eyed boy who stared in awe at his mentor a gentle pat on the
shoulder.
“Don’t
be afraid! Do the right thing, like you practice where your mother is
concerned.
“And,
maybe, even though he doesn’t seem to deserve it, you might now, cut your dad a
little slack; sounds like his life isn’t very pleasant, either. Yeah! I know!
He made his bed. But, spread some of that special understanding and maybe a
modicum of ‘love’ on his path in life. You might just find that generosity
reaps huge rewards; sometimes where you least expect them.”
When
Logan concluded, he offered, “Sorry about the sermon, kid. It ain’t even
Sunday. Is it?”
“No!’
Came Donnie’s smiling reply. “But, thanks anyway. I appreciate what you said.”
Logan
got to his feet; Donnie continued to stare into the vacant space between
himself and Long’s Peak, lost somewhere in a time and space of his own
choosing.
Glancing
at the sun, he calculated the time at nearing eleven thirty; about time to head
out.
“I’m
heading back, now, boy,” Logan announced. “Coming?” he inquired, passively.
The
boy turned to look at the man, slowly shaking his head.
“No,
thanks! Mister.” He said, determined, sticking out his chubby hand which Logan
clasped. “Thank you for the treats and water…and, your time,” he added. “I
think I’ll just sit here and watch the mountain for a while; think about
things; let the old man cool his heels in the car.”
He
laughed, genuinely. “Hell!” He swore. “I guess he wouldn’t abandon me---again!”
“Suit
yourself, young man,” Logan advised. “My bet is: you’ll be alright.” He nodded
and turned, taking his leave without further “adieu”.
Logan
had nearly reached the end of the paved path on his way down to the Jeep before
Donnie realized that the man had inadvertently forgotten his leather jacket,
gloves and ball cap which the boy still, gratefully, wore. Shaking himself from
his reverie and self-imposed pathetic sadness, the boy quickly climbed to the
pinnacle boulder, wide eyes searching the downhill trace for his recent
benefactor. Finally, with persistence, the youth caught sight of the man,
nearly having reached the parking lot; he would never make it to the lot before
the man departed. Even after the brief rest, the boy was exhausted from the
climb up the mountain and just getting back on top of the boulder for his
search brought his ragged breath in gasps.
Donnie
tried to yell “Hey! Mister!” in an attempt to get the man’s attention, the
distance only about a half mile, or so, but the brisk breeze swallowed his
raspy, indecipherable tones carrying them off to the southeast to dissipate
amongst the peaks. Frantically, he took off the leather coat and waved it over
his head, but the distant man was already entering his red vehicle and did not
see the boy’s agitated antics as he desperately tried in futility to capture
Logan’s attention.
As
the vehicle pulled away, Donnie resigned himself to the facts at hand and sat
down to catch his breath. Putting his frigid arms back in the coat’s sleeves,
an errant gust of cold wind caught the exposed leather flap and twisted the
material inside out. Then, the boy noticed an inner zippered pocket. Once he
regained control of the obstinate jacket, the boy opened the hidden pocket
immediately discovering the envelope which contained the letter Logan had
written to his mother that very morning.
The
address, inscribed in pencil and printed in block letters, read:
Mrs. Logan
(Aleda) Williams Sr.
4537 Desert
Arroyo Circle Ct.
Bluebonnet, TX
75111.
Donnie
glanced at the return address:
Logan Williams
Jr.
c/o Philippe
Mendoza
P.O Box 79
Cortez, CO 81321
Seeing
that there was no postage stamp affixed, Donnie vowed to get one and mail the
letter.
Back
at the Jeep, Logan hopped in, grabbed another bottle of water and a fresh
Granola bar; Donnie’s dad had disappeared, could not be seen anywhere on the
site and was not in his car. Probably best that the two did not meet; better to
mind one’s own business. Very good advice!
He
should be in Estes Park by two in the afternoon, at the very latest. Perfect!
There
was a scenic turn-out about half way down the east slope of the mountain going
into the town and that point afforded some spectacular views including a
mountain stream cascading a couple of hundred feet over a cliff to disappear
behind some outcroppings; eventually it continued to Estes park and ran in a
rock bottom river through the town, directly under a wood deck built over the
babbling thunder at the local Pizza Hut where he had enjoyed many a fine treat
over many years; sounded like a supper plan; his mouth watered. Logan planned
to stop at the turn out and make some preliminary sketches which he could later
flesh out at his leisure, as was his habit. Smiling at the ease with which the
day shaped up, he smiled, thinking that it is, indeed, all the little things
which make the old adage, oh, so true: Life is good!
Pulling
out of the parking slot and twisting off the cap of the plastic water bottle,
Logan switched on the dashboard radio before he took a swallow. High atop the
mountain, one might easily conclude that radio-wave reception should be
unhampered and myriad stations reaching around the world could come in crystal
clear, such musings, like many “self-evident” truisms, are errant in either
their premises, their determinations, or, more often, both. Harsh, crackling
static met Logan’s ears, as if to prove the point.
At
night, such waves travelled much less harassed by weather and static than
during daylight hours; still it took a mighty strong signal to cover great
distances, in the first place. Such secondary interferences could only occur if
the wave length might be capable of reaching a distant destination. FM
frequencies often fared better than their AM cousins though each could be
expected to encounter myriad difficulties. The Jeep had only an AM receiver; if
nothing was received within several moments, chances of getting any news before
reaching the town of Estes park were pretty slim, if existent, at all. Exiting
the parking area began an immediate steep, unrelenting and continuous downhill
drive which quickly captured the vehicle surrounded by vertical cliffs, leaving
any radio reception a vacant hope.
Catching
a slight clearing in the irritating static crackle just as Logan exited the
parking lot, he heard several broken words over toned with scratchy squelch
which made no sense: world---towers struck---plane---The
president---(garble)---. Then, the signal faded completely, even barring
grating static as the Jeep descended the slope at a steep angle and the
surrounding mountain peaks swallowed the tiny conveyance; mighty Long’s Peak
disappeared from view immediately as sheer cliffs loomed to the south. Of course, Logan could manage to turn around
and retrace his path to the parking area, but, then, he knew, only more
aggravating static would return. Anyway, in a few hours, he’d be down the
mountain, in the town, and the news, with whatever unimaginable catastrophe it
might entail, would still be fresh enough for consumption.
Behind
Logan and two thousand feet down the steep slope and, now, fully three-quarters
of a mile distance, sat the turquoise blue mountain lake where his elk visited
each dusk for water, just at the edge of tree line; the surface area of the
alpine natural reservoir encompassing about three acres surface area. He had
glimpsed it momentarily as he had exited the parking area. No elk!
Eastward
from the summit parking lot, a long valley opened wide toward the town of Estes
Park; civilization could not be seen from such great distance, about a dozen
miles and several thousand feet lower in elevation, but the roadway turned and
twisted as it wound down the slope; just before Logan dipped over the edge of
the rim of the lot and onto the two lane pavement, he caught sight of a big
four door sedan, probably a Buick, coming up the mountain, maybe a half mile
from his position. Switchbacks and steep cliffs abutting the road offered
occasional brief glimpses of the highway ahead as one traversed the trail.
His
mind focused on the lake behind and below his position; Logan wanted to stop
and view the scene once more since it might be a long while until he came this
way again; the man could never have fathomed a guess even close to his eternal
fate pending the next few minutes. But the pavement hugged the northeast cliff
to his right where the boy, Donnie, probably still sat in the tidy, warm
shelter of the jumbled boulders, only two or three hundred feet of his own,
present elevation. Because of the steepness of the terrain, the summit pinnacle
remained obscured.
On
Logan’s right, in the direction of Long’s Peak, also hidden from view, there
were no turn outs or scenic overlook locations as the valley dropped at a
precarious angle and vehicles were “protected” from the precipice by a two foot
high guard rail, of sorts, it being a wall of pinkish granite bowling
ball-sized stones and rocks from the mountain side long ago gathered and laid
in mortar by stone masons when the road had been constructed in the very early
1930’s providing access for the public to the Park. Like all nebulous
“security”, the stone impediment to breaching the edge of the road and
cascading down the steep rocky slope to doom was more a perfunctory result of
perception than of any actual safety reality.
If
everybody professes profound belief in any “lie”, does it not then become the
“truth”? Or, is such self-deceit only viable in a fake world until the ultimate
reality test occurs?
Felix
Lowenshtelm did not like the mountains; they were impediments created to fly
over, not to tempt fate by driving across them. He glanced, for the ten
millionth time since leaving Estes Park where they had spent the night, at his
sleeping wife of fifty-two years, slumped in the passenger seat of his big
luxury Buick and shook his head disgustedly. Drooling through an open mouth,
Imogene’s incessant snoring only exacerbated the absurdity of the entire
situation.
He
had wanted to fly to New Jersey for the annual torture of visiting Imogene’s
daughter and her brat kids for a full week, but, no, His wife said they were
getting old and she wanted to drive cross-country from their home in Arizona so
she could see the sights and visit the Rocky Mountains. Of course, Felix had
relented. Had she even asked? Hell! No! The General only dictated orders,
whatever came to her feeble mind without consideration for anybody, or,
anything, save her own precious fiat. Wow!
Damn! Any consequences. What
could go wrong?
The
couple had vacated their motel, ate breakfast and exited town by eight a.m. Felix
wanted to listen to the news on the radio, but Imogene suffered from car
sickness whenever they traveled and the “noise” of talking, human or
mechanical, irritated her fragile condition. He snorted derisively, shrugging
his shoulders and shaking his head; each of them was better off when she slept.
Anyway, at least she wasn’t yammering continuously about his erratic driving.
Damn!
Of
course, he did need to pay particular attention to the road; these mountains
were steep and the pavement sometimes seemed to tip sideways in an un-level
position. Often, the roadway showed a wet surface as springs and runoff from
melting snow and ice gathered on the road; in the last several miles Felix had
noted thin sheets of ice in some spots. The numerous blind curves, steep
ravines and impossible switchbacks made him nervous; the last thing he needed
was an accident to cost him even more money. Imogene did not seem to care about
“his” money.
The
traveler would definitely welcome a return to the high temperatures and hot
desert sands of Arizona, not caring if he ever saw another mountain---or, for
that matter…New Jersey, again.
Little
could he guess that fate is the hunter and he, like the rest of humanity, are
only pliable cogs in the machinery of time-space and history. Careful what you
wish for! Amen!
Imogene
stirred, trying to wake up as first she snorted like a thoroughbred, gagged and
finally coughed until her eyes flickered open and she sat up. All that
commotion just as the heavy Buick came to another blind curve to the right; one
covered with solid ice which Felix recognized too late. Over reacting, he hit
the brakes hard, locking them and sending the car into a spin.
As
he cleared the jutting granite cliff protruding into his lane of travel opening
his sight to the uphill road again, Imogene screamed and covered her face;
Felix closed his eyes, tight.
Logan
approached the blind curve from the opposite direction, slowing a bit and
attempting to look over his right shoulder toward the hidden elk lake behind
him; it would be his last chance to glimpse the scene until he traveled this
way again. And, who knew when that might be?
From
the corner of his eye appeared a beige flash as a big vehicle came sliding
sideways into his lane of travel; he braked, braced himself for impact and
hugged the right side of the roadway.
The
Buick’s tires found purchase on dry pavement as the car careened across the icy
plateau and straightened out seconds before impact with a red Jeep coming
directly at it; the sliding vehicle quickly came to a halt in its proper lane,
headed in the correct uphill direction.
Logan
wasn’t so lucky; the gods had apparently chosen not to be with him, that day.
When
he maneuvered the Jeep to his right and against the two foot stone guardrail,
the huge lugs on the outside protruding past the edge of the oversized tires
bit into the rock wall grabbing the surface, violently dragging the vehicle
onto, and finally, over the intended safety obstruction.
Felix
Lowenshtelm, wide-eyed, witnessed the atrocity, threw his Buick into “Park”,
fought the irritating seat belt, finally getting the encumbrance loose, kicked
open the heavy driver’s door and bolted from the car, hobbling to the far edge
of the road.
Before
his unbelieving eyes, a red Jeep slid in a slow-motion rolling action
side-to-side at an awkward angle to the steep, rocky slope of the mountainside;
items from the vehicle’s interior flew in every direction as the red blur,
encased in a shroud of rocks, dust and debris cascaded farther down the rocky
slope. In one vicious “flip”, Felix witnessed a body thrown from the red blur,
out ahead of the out-of-control vehicle and onto the sliding loose rock of the
cliff side.
Then,
to his ultimate horror, the tumbling vehicle rolled directly over the prostrate
body which disappeared from sight as the Jeep continued its free descent. The
spectator surveyed the debris for any sign of the body, but so complete was the
wreckage and the debris among the sliding rocks that the man could not see
anything even remotely recognizable. He uttered a Yiddish prayer as Imogene
finally arrived at her husband’s side, taking his trembling hand in her own
while clutching both to her chest, her lips twitching, her eyes wet with
rolling tears.
At
last, the demolished red blob resembling a crimson smear in a sea of shifting
rocks and dust, now, totally unrecognizable as a vehicle, came to rest against
a giant boulder far down the slope from the Rocky mountain National Park road
above as the huge obstruction refused to relinquish its tentative hold on the
steep slope; finally, the dust settled and the scene became eerily quiet. On
the pinnacle above, a form wearing a black leather jacket with fringe quaking
in the stiff breeze stood on a precipice and viewed the remains of the
wreckage. In a silent film-type salute, across the tenuous slope, wraithlike
sheets of white sketch papers drifted on the wind toward the elk lake off some
distance toward the west, lying quiet like a luminescent turquoise jewel,
serene in its awesome beauty, un-impacted by the horrendous tragic human
activity.
Later,
after the cops, tow truck, ambulance and varied spectators had vacated the
horrid scene, having cleaned up the carnage, winched what they could find of
the Jeep-wreckage back up the slope, filled out all the necessary and proper
report forms, and as the spent sun gave up the day in its relentless struggle
with the dark and slowly progressed beyond the mountain peaks to meet the east
with a promised newborn tomorrow, the elk herd made its way to the sweet water lake
to satiate its thirst before its routine night time forage-excursion. The
animals could not recognize the myriad reflected images of their own likeness
imprisoned upon white sheets of drawing paper with shadowed pencil lines now
gathered and floating on the pristine lake at the water’s edge.
The End…
…Save
for a few final thoughts of the Author on Individual Independence: To wit:
Civilization
might, and, does, impose its “higher” order upon the culture in the name of
“progress” toward the determination of “Good” for the collective society; yet,
that march to “Nirvana” prescribed by the “Royal-Elite”, so christened by
status, money, power, comes at a very steep detrimental consequence to the
envied spirit of free man. Wild things cannot be naturally tethered to a formal
garden; such are out of place, save for the errant beauty of a colorful
volunteer wild flower which the prudent gardener erroneously decides is an
unwanted weed and quickly removes the blessing. A bound spirit withers and eventually
dies when it is deprived of its destiny: To soar among the eagles above the
peaks where untamed swirling winds of time and space develop them. And, for the
very few, these rebel, rascal, rogues are all too willing to challenge the
accepted, the tried, the true. Just, “what if?” the “genius” is wrong, once
again? Does blind acceptance of “any” lie validate the transgression as---Truth!?
A
poet once declared of flight that man has “slipped the surly bonds of earth…”
Who might have dared imagine, or propose, that lowly man could escape the
binding tethers barring him from soaring where his feathered friends dared go?
The “elite” had that one right: If
God wanted man to fly, He’d have given him wings! Wow! Such arrogance! Idiocy!
Erudite sophistication!
Dare
challenge---All! Beliefs: religion,
motivation, love; most of all: Thyself!
In
the end, materialism is a demon-vacant lie! Un-truth can never prevail!
Revelation
ascribes the tale: In the end, the Good guys win! Amen!
Late
April of any year found that rebel, rascal, rogue prostrate on his back lying
in a verdant green of spring red clover delight, peering heavenward to view a
Red Tail hawk riding the currents generated by the sheer abrupt rise of three
hundred foot limestone bluffs rising from the river bottom while his
counterparts labored diligently behind cubicle desks completing projects and
pouring out “special” reports mostly obsolete upon their final revision; they,
of course, and, of consequence, climbed the corporate ladder rungs to reach
obsolescent retirement, sometimes. Our vagrant hunted wild Morel mushrooms and
fished the deep secret pools of the lake for hybrid Red Ear and wondered at the
Red Tail independent hawk-flight; offers for promotion poured in to him, also,
but, he chose to be too busy!? And, in truth, was---with…life!
Such
irreverent reply stating humble blatant reverence for importance: Live! Laugh!
Love!
The
“Then” is history; the “next” may never come; “Now!” Lives eternally present.
Enjoy!
Challenge
brave the steep summit reach; observe the eagle from above upon yon Unicorn!
Taste
that special Freedom which life affords through Liberty. Dare savor sweet such
delicious ecstasy where freely thee dares lick honey-sugar fantasy simply
humbled with exotic pleasure through sacred premises necessitating one proper
conclusion---Love!
Please!
For thou own sake: Don’t miss any instant of life’s offered pleasure!
Amen? Amen! And,
again---Amen!
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