Two styles of camping

When we camp, Mr. Needles seldom stays near the campfire.

His connection with special places comes when he is out fishing or hiking the alpine meadows. He goes far, looks far, to see grandeur on a very big scale.

I like to stay closer to home. I like my cozy campfires and tend them carefully on chilly days. The coffee is always on, and to some, it might seem that I never go anywhere, never experience the place. The miles I travel when we are in the high country, are not miles across earth.

I focus on small things, close things.

With needles and yarn rustling quietly in my hands, I watch what happens by. As robins stop along their way, looking for just the right piece of something to line their nests, I marvel at their manner. They stand absolutely still,then turn their heads in the blink of an eye,only to be absolutely still again, as if the most important thing is the stillness, but they will expend all possible haste to get there.

I look at leaves breaking out in a burst of life, straining from their winter cocoon.

I watch tiny pockets of sunlight dancing across the mosses of the forest floor. There is a dainty sort of majesty in the quiet interplay of light and dark, the shifting tones of brilliant golden greens and shaded emeralds forming instantly as branches sway on soft breezes high above.

I prefer a close visions of grandeur nestled among the protective cover of needles, last years faded grasses, and the bursts of this years tiny shoots of green. I love how, sometimes, even in the most barren of tiny rocky places, magic happens.Even as I love the small majesty I see in every direction, I love to hear her sounds. There are few things I love more than just listening to the wind in the trees, to the swift power that is a ravens wings, the buzzings of bees, and the graceful notes of birds hanging on the air. This forest beguiles me all the more so, with the rushing waters of the Wild Hay providing counter point.

There are secrets in those sighing sounds,whispers across time. When I sit absolutely still and close my eyes in a forest, I am transported to a time before, when man existed in balance and harmony, when small glories were big things, when we stopped and heard the marvels. Stopping there, holding absolutely still, there is always a moment when I mourn what we have done, what we have become, so far from our roots as a creature of the wild as much as the deer and the otter. Even as I know these sorrows, I become forest, I am absorbed, absolved, restored.

Mr. Needles goes places I will never go and yet in so many ways, our search is the same. We share a quest in different but integral ways to find the quiet ancient hand of mother earth. Our goal is just to stop and hear her heart beat, as all men once did.

All photos are provided courtesy of Mr. Needles. The flowers and plants are from the high alpine valley. Check out the native Lewissia. Down by the lakeshore, the sun has not quite warmed the forest floor enough for the plants to be blooming. Most are just now thinking about popping from the ground. Blooming happens in one massive burst of life over the next 3 weeks.