My son promised me eventual forest, that the trail which is up and up and up would open onto wooded splendor. Like his mother, E— wanders the Wasatch trails alone; sometimes from dawn until noon. On his word, I've hiked back, farther and farther, several times over the last two weeks, working the steepness of the trail patiently in anticipation of the promised venue. I've traversed avalanche fields, encountered bighorn sheep, deer, and plethora mountain songbirds. And Tuesday, I reached a fork in the path where it turns north and skirts the eastern face of the mountain, the other side of the mountain. I've thought to myself that I might check with my son on his definition of "forest". Perhaps that's where I've been, traversing nearly three miles into the canyon each morning, then turning around again. The elevation gain is some 3,000 feet, the canyon scenery stunning. What Rock Canyon provided three years ago, Slate Canyon provides for me now. A mother home. A nestling bed of contemplation and worship. She is wild and tangled, and promises to lend me her insights in the process of mountain building and soul-making.
On Monday, I walked upward some 2,500 feet, erected stones to my God and gave thanks for the path I am wandering. In return, the way forward opened again and I caught a glimpse, a few feet ahead into the coming year of continued recovery.
We continue the act of reconstruction.