JULY 7th

This morning… I hiked at the top of the world. Above the tree line at 12,000 feet the air is thin and the sky a deep blue. The clouds feel close—and so whip-cream white and opaque—you could reach up and run your finger through them for a lick.

This afternoon… I walked barefoot along the sea. I breathed in the soft humid air, heavy with the marine mist that muted the sky to a pale gray-blue.

This morning… I pulled my parka against the sharp wind that often reaches 100 mph at this altitude in The Rockies.

This afternoon… a gentle northwest ocean breeze rustled the brim of my baseball cap and the sleeves of my t-shirt.

This morning… the intense July sun challenged the protection offered by my sunglasses, hat, long sleeves and #30 sunscreen. The mercilessly dry air sucked the moisture out of any exposed skin, and I was aware that I wouldn’t last long on my own in this environment. Yet as inhospitable as it was, I felt a closeness, an attachment. A connectedness.

This afternoon… the marine moisture along with smoke from a distant California fire made the sun weak and far removed—unthreatening. I could feel my skin rehydrating—sea level and humidity restoring my body. Alongside the ocean is where humans can exist without adaptation. This is where we belong.

This morning… I laughed at the rusty brown, thick-furred marmots running on stiff legs along the barren rocky slopes. One sat upright like a groundhog and chirped a warning. Seeing that I was no threat, the group of six settled back to warming their bellies on the sun-heated stones. This is their home.

This afternoon…two baby bunnies chased each other through the beach bushes as I walked by. In their short lives, they have somehow already grown accustomed to humans and took no mind of me. This is their home.

This morning… a lone raven sat atop one of the isolated rock pillars. It seemed out of place. What are you doing way up here at this altitude, I asked. It turned a yellow eye toward me, spread its wings and continued to caw. Leave me alone, it seemed to say. Life is hard enough up here without stupid humans harassing me.

This afternoon…a flock of long-billed Curlews danced at the water’s edge in search of wee sand crabs for dinner. They were directly in my path and startled into the air as I approached. They flew fifty feet and landed, resuming their grazing in the sand. As I neared them for a second time, they took to flight again with a loud outcry. Life is hard enough as a bird, they said. Leave us alone.

This morning…I was careful where I stepped. Life is harsh above the tree line in the exposed tundra. If damaged, the inch-high dwarfed plants that hug the rocky rubble can take up to 100 years to repair themselves.

This afternoon… I sloshed and kicked through the heaps of kelp that dotted the shoreline—piles of large, tangled pieces of the fast-growing plant (12 to18 inches a day!) that had broken off in the waves and floated to shore.

This morning… the quiet was delicious as I hiked along through the high desolate tundra, sucking air and thoroughly at peace. The only sounds were the wind through the rocks and the chitter of the marmots. My Rocky Mountain reverie was broken by the noise of an overhead jet and I looked up in irritation as its contrail cut a white gash in the otherwise perfect sky.

This afternoon…as I strolled the beach, the crash of the waves nearly drowned out the sound of dogs barking and the cars along the highway. Then two motorized hang gliders roared up behind me, flying just over my head on their cruise toward Morro Rock. I waved and they waved back.

Midday today… as I peered out my tiny window of the regional jet taking me from Denver to San Luis Obispo—from my mountain-high aerie back to my home at the beach—I saw the rugged Rockies below me—they being completely unaware that I left or that I was ever there. I will forever be enthralled by them, their beauty, their timeless majesty. And they will forever be indifferent to me, my insignificance, and my human fragility. They will be here long past my time on this earth.  

This afternoon…I stood looking out to sea as the swells formed and curled into waves, then hit the beach. Onward they came. Over and over. None the same, yet all consistently lovely. The ocean is glorious, vast and timeless. She is beautiful. She doesn’t know that I love her as I do. She doesn’t even know or care that I exist. But I love her just the same. And she will be here long past my time on this earth.

In the mountains or on the ocean, a naked human would perish quickly. We could not exist in either environment were it not for our crafty minds figuring out ways to manage life in places where we don’t belong. We may be the only species on earth to appreciate the beauty of nature. And isn’t it curious that we are the ones who cause the most damage to her? May the earth forgive the contrasts of our nature, and may we grow up and learn our place here.

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As I pressed my face against the jet’s window to catch one last glimpse of the mountains, I sent a silent apology to whoever was hiking below—looking up at my jet as it passed overhead, and shaking her fist.