On July fifteenth, as I was walking through the woods, I met a dog. A friendly dog, glossy copper, loped up to me, his back covered with a dirty t-shirt. I smiled because I am fond of dogs of a certain size and color, and because the meeting was unexpected and welcome. One caress and he was off, back up the trail, glancing back to see that I followed. I did, but the dog outpaced me, and I never saw him again.
An hour after that meeting, I emerged from the woods and stepped into an alpine meadow, long and wide, stippled here and there with granite slabs. This was Morris Meadow, and it was as far as I'd walked when I first took the trail from Cherry Flat with my father probably thirty-two years ago. Six or seven years ago I'd tried the trail again, the trail that climbs and falls beside the Stuart Fork for mile after mile. On that outing I'd barely slowed for the meadow, and I'd reached Emerald Lake, a sort of El Dorado in my family.
So I decided, months ago, to repeat that feat, but at a more leisurely pace.
This is what I wrote as I sat eating my lunch at the edge of Morris Meadow:
From my rented car at Bridge Camp I walked two hours and forty minutes to get here. Left a bit after eight; it's now 11:30. Hot for the last bit—otherwise shady & cool. Two bridges along the way: reached #1 at one hour, #2 at two hours. Left Achilles tendon a bit sore. Splendid day. I'm on a big black rock in the shade facing across the meadow toward the trail, the river, the ragged snow spattered peaks two miles away. Before Cherry Flat a fawn bounded away then stopped and stared: gorgeous, spotty. Later two does and a special secret spot up the hillside where five species of butterfly supped on the nectar of soft white flowers. A tiny trickle of water over parti-colored stones. Much lichen on the dry rocks. A junco preening. Mountain roses. Spikey plants with tiny white flowers capping the stalk. Sun warming the hillside. A butterfly landed on my hand, its infinite tongue lapping vainly at me. Another flew between my legs. Minutes later another (the same one?) on my cuff, then my wrist. I shook it gently off. Huge tiger swallowtails feeding on the handsome white blooms within my reach.
Here on the rock I opened my shirt and the breeze chilled my soaked chest. Sound of distant water, birds, flies whizzing.
Shall I descend to the stream for a rinse?
I decided not to, instead following a faint trail that curved along the edge of the meadow, parting from it to inspect patches of orange lilies, clumps of columbine. I even found a small collection of Calochortus elegans, an example of which appears above.
Maybe I should have remained in the meadow, but it's often hard to give up on a project even when you've been shown a host of reasons. And in this case the reasons were not yet apparent.
Into the woods again, the trail now narrower, less kempt. Two boys turned the corner up ahead, walking toward me. One held a snake, and when we were face to face I asked about it.
"A rattlesnake I killed just up there. It was in the middle of the trail."
The animal was still coiling and uncoiling around his arm as he spoke.
