Staring Out, Again.

A two day storm blows itself out, revealing Hallett Peak, as seen from the easy, albeit windy, trail around Sprague Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park.  This iconic image can be easily captured by anyone with a camera.  I'm certain that anyone who might come to see it when it hangs in the gallery, might intend to go try for themselves.  I wonder why, though.  As an artist, I am compelled toward the expression of my own peculiar stories and ideas.  But what drives others out into the cold to chase an elusive quarry?  In the six hours I walked around the park chasing my own demons tail, my mind drifted back to the mornings I'd get up hell bent on reaching the top of places like Hallett Peak.  I think it was the post-holing hike with an incredibly heavy pack on my back that dislodged the ancient memory.  Maybe it was the very cold and humid spring morning air and wiping my nose on my gloved thumb.  Felt good to be out and alone, drifting with the low clouds taking pictures of trees being eaten alive by pine beetles, and rivulet streams flowing through troughs in the new snow.  Several months ago I hiked into Dream Lake at 4am for the usual alpenglow photos.  After that I hiked to Emerald Lake at the base of the mountain and climbed to a fantastic napping spot in full sun.  I didn't sleep so much as stare at the craggy face picturing myself somewhere up there lost in a shadow, perhaps staring back, but more likely staring into the distance, yet again.  When, on this snowy morning, the clouds lifted out of the valleys, I slowly walked back to my vehicle, groggy and cold, aging.  Something alerts in the trees and goes quiet, all you hear is wind and brushes of snow.  You've become increasingly aware in the hushed forest, moving toward the daydream, unknowingly lost, alone, and increasingly happy.