Bear Mine Trail
Day hike near Ouray, CO - Wednesday, July 24, 2013
We scrambled, one after another, in file - if two can constitute a file. The hillside was shattered into pieces: bits of shale that crinkled like glass as I set down the point of my walking stick. Mine was smooth, chest high, relatively straight. But hers was short, and twisted at the top. "I want this one because it has character," she told me. I can say the same of you, my dear.
So, we went up Bear Mine Trail. I was not expecting the steep ascent. Defiant pines stood, straight and tall; wicked, grotesque oaks sprawled. And the path! No, not a path, but only the idea of a path, a thin trickle of smoke. We clung to the mountain side, she leading me. Below us, a blue creek churned white over boulders. Across the gully, a sheer rock wall. Above, the sun beat down. My shirt soaked through. A deep longing from inside: too much coffee this morning. I was light headed and hungry.
Soon we reached the old mine. The landscape had begun a change. In sheltered nooks of the mountain, bare rock melted into pockets of vegetation : Indian paintbrush, angelica, a sweet smelling artemisia, a mountain mint, aspen groves. The mine gaped and beckoned. I went into the darkness with a feeble torch light. I felt it's draw, it's endless question: beyond, ahead, a mystery.
We walked on. The creek was drawing steadily higher, and soon we crossed the swift, cold water. The skies now were gray, threatening rain. In a rich pine wood we stopped for lunch. Having forgotten to pack a spoon, we ate with our fingers passing the Tupperware back and forth. I took out my poncho and worried on the weather, but she was settled. There's a youthfulness inside of her, a hard hope, a smile just below the surface. You can brush away the cares of the day and see it there, pure. I think my heart would break if it was hidden from me.
After lunch, under sunshine, we found secret meadows filled with a delicate fragrance. Ah, a rose! A sweet, musk rose. I thought of Shakespeare: "There sleeps Titania some time in the night..." The path switched back, the creek fell away again. Somewhere up the mountain, we turned to look back, embraced, and snapped a picture. Not quite to Yellow Jacket Mine, but far enough. We turned, and unwound that winding path. Back to the car, back into town, and together we reveled in the joy of shared adventure.
We scrambled, one after another, in file - if two can constitute a file. The hillside was shattered into pieces: bits of shale that crinkled like glass as I set down the point of my walking stick. Mine was smooth, chest high, relatively straight. But hers was short, and twisted at the top. "I want this one because it has character," she told me. I can say the same of you, my dear.
So, we went up Bear Mine Trail. I was not expecting the steep ascent. Defiant pines stood, straight and tall; wicked, grotesque oaks sprawled. And the path! No, not a path, but only the idea of a path, a thin trickle of smoke. We clung to the mountain side, she leading me. Below us, a blue creek churned white over boulders. Across the gully, a sheer rock wall. Above, the sun beat down. My shirt soaked through. A deep longing from inside: too much coffee this morning. I was light headed and hungry.
Soon we reached the old mine. The landscape had begun a change. In sheltered nooks of the mountain, bare rock melted into pockets of vegetation : Indian paintbrush, angelica, a sweet smelling artemisia, a mountain mint, aspen groves. The mine gaped and beckoned. I went into the darkness with a feeble torch light. I felt it's draw, it's endless question: beyond, ahead, a mystery.
We walked on. The creek was drawing steadily higher, and soon we crossed the swift, cold water. The skies now were gray, threatening rain. In a rich pine wood we stopped for lunch. Having forgotten to pack a spoon, we ate with our fingers passing the Tupperware back and forth. I took out my poncho and worried on the weather, but she was settled. There's a youthfulness inside of her, a hard hope, a smile just below the surface. You can brush away the cares of the day and see it there, pure. I think my heart would break if it was hidden from me.
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