After a week that included the Orlando shooting, the murder of British Parliament member Jo Cox, the continued presence of Donald Trump, and other assorted stupidity, surely I was not alone in needing a break from humanity.
Yet all was quiet as we wound up Boreas Pass early Friday morning, save for a dog whining like LeBron James (consistently and for no clear transgression). I was as excited to see a vacant trailhead as I was to get Wyatt out of the car, so I pulled over without knowing what we were in for, loaded gear, leashed the dogs, and set off toward the promisingly named Rocky Point.
We followed the rusted remnants of the South Park & Pacific Railroad through a patch of golden wildflowers and around a tight bend that indeed led to a rocky point. We took in the spectacular view of the Tarryall Creek drainage and the modest peaks that loomed beyond, then moved on before a blind dog could pull me over the 11,000-foot drop.
Minutes later, we were back at the road. The “trail” was merely a semicircle. I’m sure there’s a metaphor there. Maybe even a simile. But I’m too weary to consider it; such thoughts have occupied our consciousness too much of late with too little to show for it.
We started over, as you sometimes have to do, venturing into the woods along Halfway Creek. Reese wallowed in the shallow water. Miles rolled in the grass. Wyatt got intimate with a rock. I reclined against a sun-baked boulder, closed my eyes and wished that the planet could share in a moment of peace like this.
Then Reese slung cold mud on me; a reminder of what awaited back in the real world.