There's something in the air, a dreamlike quality- time is fluid here. Maybe this is how they live, something we, in our attempt to catalogue time, to slow down, speed up, and transfix life, have missed. There's a sort of laziness in the summer air, and I meander through the woods, soaking in the Life with every step. I'm Miranda from The Tempest, glorying in this brave new world that has always been there. I'm discovering the world all over again.
The trail to Alberta Falls are full of song. Bridges cross over foaming brooks, and streams of melting snow ripple laughingly over the path. The big creeks pound against the rocks, foaming and frothing, running under our feet and then plunging over a hill. The wind roars through the tree tops, lending them voices and animation, it's almost as if they're whispering to each other, secrets which you can just barely make out. There are feet in the background, crackling through leaves and tapping on rocks. Maybe once or twice, we can make out the shape of the owners of those winking, fairy feet, but more often than not, they remain instruments in a symphony of life.
We walk over a bridge and into heaven. Young aspens bend and bow, creating a golden tunnel, speckled with dots of green light. The aspens laugh, their heart-shaped leaves slipping through the wind, and I slowly walk through, reveling silently. This is beauty- the white arms of the aspens on either side of the trail, creating a haven in time where it is sunshine forever, where the world is cast in shades of yellow and green, and even the boisterous creek is subdued and murmurs gently in the distance.
We humans left our mark there- humanity's foolishness, squabbles, ego and pride, preserved forever in lumpy, black scars on the aspen's soft white arms. Names, hearts, pictures, welling up in hard lumpy scars that bubble and crawl all over the aspen trunks. And this brings me back to reality, one blot marring the beauty and making this piece of heaven a part of earth.
I exit the aspen tunnel and walk a little more before encountering what I believe was the pallet of some long-gone artist. Rocks jut out slightly in cubic formations, and the cliffside is painted glorious shades of green, orange, yellow and salmon. The river thunders loudly, a few steep drops down, the water frothing and churning. And always moving, dancing swiftly and surely downstream. The foam curls a little- just a little, swirling like fine hair, or smoke in the air, then it shifts, changes and quickly disappears downstream. We're not there yet- I shift the backpack slightly and follow the others up.
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