Memories: What God gave us so that we might have roses in December.
A few days ago I decided to take a drive up Piedra Road. I hadn’t been this way in many moons and was feeling a bit nostalgic. For seven years, my wife Jayebird and I had lived four miles north of Hwy 160 on Piedra. We had eight beautiful acres of land in front of the old Job Corps site in the shadow of Oakbrush Hill.
As I slowly passed our old home the memories started to flow like vintage wine; some were happy, but many were melancholy. A lot had transpired in those years: loved ones had been lost, hearts had been broken, and dreams had been shattered. The Ponderosas on our property had known our sadness, and now, through their branches, the wind whispered mournfully.
A wonderful memory that shines like a beacon in my mind is Gold Dust Mountain Girl ‒ affectionately called Dusty. She was a large golden retriever with big round eyes; and when I looked into those brown eyes I beheld a gentle and loving spirit. Why do we humans insist that we are the only beings with a soul? We are animals, too ‒ and some of us are nothing more than beasts. But Dusty was a noble beast! She had more character than many of my human friends and was much more affectionate ‒ and forgiving. She was our daughter and our confidante. She was the Princess!
I had to pull over and reminisce. I looked up Martinez Valley, past Coyote Hill, up to majestic Pagosa Peak surveying her domain like an ancient sentinel. And then the floodgate of memories opened.
It was 26 years ago this month. May 1993. It was a partly cloudy morning and Jayebird had already gone to work. I had woken in a state of depression and was seriously contemplating ending it all. And then Dusty jumped up onto the bed and snuggled beside me, her wagging tail keeping time with the ticking alarm clock. I had to smile. She always knew when I needed tender loving care. She was like medicine for the soul. I got up and put on Mozart’s 40th and had coffee and scrambled eggs. Dusty and I had a nice talk and decided that what we needed that day was a good hike.
I got out my knapsack, filled the olive-drab canteen and packed a lunch. I made sure to get provisions for my friend: doggie treats and a small water bowl. I donned a straw hat, put on my hiking boots, placed a buck knife on my belt and grabbed my walking stick. We set out northeast, walking at a good clip, hopefully toward peace of mind.
First we ascended North Oakbrush Hill and gazed back down at our property. To the east was Hidden Valley and Stevens Lake bordered by the purple eastern mountains. To the north was the snow-covered Continental Divide and the foreboding Weminuche Wilderness. You could just make out Plumtaw Road snaking in and around the mountains. That would be our destination!
We climbed the two hills just north of Oakbrush and then decided to cross the valley westward to Coyote Hill. I had lived in Pagosa Country for a year and a half and had not yet been atop her. She was the big hill in the neighborhood and appeared to be a challenge ‒ at least for me ‒ Dusty, not much more than a puppy, scurried up the hillside without stopping to catch her breath.
She had to come back down several times to find out what the hell had happened to her daddy. (The south side of Coyote is very steep. Really!)
Once atop the hill I had to sit down and rest. We both drank lukewarm canteen water and Dusty had a treat. The 360° view was stunning. I felt we were getting closer to the spiritual realm. To the west, dark thunderclouds were rolling in and bony fingers of lightning shot down to Devil Mountain. The distant, flashing thunderbolts sounded like Seminary Ridge at Gettysburg must have sounded. For a moment I thought about war and how we humans had been senselessly annihilating each other ‒ and the planet ‒ ever since we could stand on two feet. What a shame. I had been totally disgusted with the whole human race lately and it felt good to get off the beaten track.
We walked to the north end of Coyote Hill. Suddenly the clouds opened up and showered us with cold rain. We found shelter in a clump of pines and decided to have our lunch. By the time we finished the rain had stopped. The air was crisp and fresh, and with every breath my depression seemed to dissipate. A golden eagle silently soared overhead in a patch of blue, scanning the area for critters. Suddenly he folded his wings and plummeted from the air like a missile. In the blink of an eye he had caught an unsuspecting chipmunk with his powerful talons and a moment later both hunter and prey were over the hill and out of sight. Life, in a sense, is like a battlefield. One minute you’re here and the next you’re shot down. It’s all about survival I guess. Could I survive after all? Or would I end up being consumed like a feckless rodent or decimated by enemy forces?
I felt invigorated. Dusty and I descended the hill and found an old logging road which ran along Martinez Creek. The creek was roaring with freshly melted snow. I remembered that the snow pack that year was 150% over normal, as it is this year. We followed the old trail through a series of green meadows through which the stream plied. Suddenly the roar of water heightened as we stumbled upon a waterfall. In the pool beneath the falls were three or four rainbow trout that I could have grabbed had I the inclination. Above the falls was a network of streams spreading out every which way. The main tributary led us to a large pond where a beaver was silently gliding on top carrying a clump of weeds in its mouth. Dusty remained quiet but didn’t quite know what to think about the furry creature.
East of the beaver pond was a cliff about eight feet high. Several rivulets of sparkling ice-water cascaded off the edge down to the noisy rock bottoms, their mist creating a miniature rainbow. Alas, I had forgotten to bring my camera; but I must have known then that this hike would be indelibly printed in my mind.
Dusty and I made it back to the little road ‒ nothing more than a couple of ruts ‒ and proceeded upward following the main stream. In the west the sky was ablaze with lightning but all around us were little patches of blue sky and golden rays of sunshine beaming down on the Promised Land. I remember wanting to go on and on; maybe all the way to Valhalla. There Odin would welcome me to his kingdom and offer me mead and friendship; and we would reside there forever watching the beautiful but cruel world clatter on beneath us.
Now we had found ourselves in a weird forgotten valley. (Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil!) The place had many signs of human presence although, thankfully, no people were spotted the entire day. Many fences though: some nothing more than rotted poles with rusted barbed wire at their ankles and others that had to be jumped or negotiated. Man seems to have an insatiable urge to erect fences and barriers ‒ of all kinds. One hundred years ago loggers and ranchers created most of these pastures by removing a lot of the mighty ponderosas. They had left a generous sprinkling of pines on the valley floors but the majority clung to the hillsides and the mountains. Old gray stumps were everywhere nestled in tall grass with blue, yellow, white, pink and purple wildflowers. The ubiquitous bees were busy pollinating the floral utopia. Dusty snapped at them but luckily didn’t catch any.
Overhead, two large red-tail hawks screeched as if to show us the way: northward, around the next strange hill, closer to the snow-capped mountains and the sky. We had gone about four miles up the valley and it was becoming even more spectacular! We entered an enchanted meadow, relaxed in the deep grass and listened to the thunder. (He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…)
This latest meadow had certain flowering plants that gave off a scent. It immediately took me back to my childhood. I was suddenly with my Grandfather in his garden. Olfactory-induced memories are the most vivid and I found myself in tears. My Dearpa was the sweetest person I had ever known and I suddenly missed him terribly. And then I thought of my brother Robert who had died two years earlier on Easter Sunday. Were they nearby? Would I find them around the next bend in the Great Hall with all the other brave fallen soldiers of life? At that moment I thought that anything was possible.
Dusty licked my face and snapped me out of my trance. I looked into her eyes and thought I saw my late brother looking back, but it was merely my own spooky reflection.
Now the hike was taking on a religious quality. This was much more than a simple stroll in the country! Maybe I was walking to Valhalla. Maybe I had died and was on my way. I don’t remember killing myself, though just hours before I had wanted to, but now I felt more alive than ever. I would live to fight another day!
Big, black, ominous clouds blew in from the west and announced themselves with a huge clap of thunder which echoed all the way down to Coyote Hill and beyond. This did not deter us and we walked into a high meadow ‒ probably about 9,000 feet above sea level.
We were greeted by clamorous Rufous hummingbirds arguing and rough-housing in the cool air. They would chase each other high into the heavens, then dive-bomb and pull out within inches of the water. The tiny birds buzzed like model Zeros over a mountain Pearl Harbor.
Dusty jumped across the stream and I carefully followed. On the other side were elk tracks and other signs of wildlife. At this point there was a fork in the stream. The main branch flowed from the northwest while the smaller one hailed from the north. We followed the northern branch for another mile until we came to an earthen dam. Atop the dam we peered across a beautiful pond about a quarter-of-a-mile in length. Pagosa Peak and the hills in front of her reflected in the calm turquoise water as a pair of honking Canadian geese took flight. The Princess ran the length of the pond in pursuit to no avail.
At this point another mountain rain fell on us, this time downright frigid. We kept on walking up the Valley of the Shadow of Death toward the steep hill that could be seen from our house. For some reason I had to climb that hill and gaze down upon this mystical valley. This would be my reward for a day of relentless hiking.
I looked to the north toward Valhalla. The raging wind blasted snow off Pagosa Peak like white smoke belching from a mysterious volcano. Thor and his army of thunderheads had arrived. The son of Odin, armed with his magic hammer, had come to pay his respects to his old man.
We were in a scrub oak forest and rapidly ascending the hill. I chose to follow a gorge up the side that contained a lot of big rocks but also afforded me the best view. Lightning was beginning to worry me a little but we forged on. We were out of water and we both had to rest regularly.
About that time Dusty came across something that made her tail wag. It was the bones of a buck mule-deer. He had died on the mountain of life ‒ as the rest of us would eventually. The whole set had been preserved intact under the snow all winter. Around the corner was his magnificent rack ‒ six points but large and symmetrical. I grabbed it without thinking and hung it over my shoulder. It protruded to the menacing sky like an idiotic lightning rod. The antlers rested perfectly on my little backpack so it wasn’t a burden. It was clumsy in the thick brush but it would be my trophy: something to mount on my front porch to remind me that there is a realm not far from my doorstep where the gods reside and there are no troubles, a sanctum that, until recently, hasn’t changed in thousands of years. That same rack is over my old Harley shed now.
A few more yards and we found ourselves at the summit. I looked down the misty, expansive valley to our little house tucked in the pines. How small and insignificant it seemed! I felt as though I was looking down on my old life ‒ back when I was mortal. This was the same view I had imagined as a little boy when my mother tucked me in at night and softly sang to me. I closed my eyes and listened to the wind swirling through the trees: “Down in the valley / the valley so low / hang your head over / hear the wind blow.” This must be the land of Nod, east of Eden where I had been exiled from the Garden. I broke down and wept as I contemplated my mortality. One day my whole life would be nothing but a memory. Perhaps it was best to live every day as if it were the last.
Looking down over creation as the world slowly turned I saw beams of sparkling sunlight playing tag with dark shadows of rain; eagles screamed and thunder clapped; and my heart beat in time with the rhythm of the universe. Down below, the ponds looked like glass steps leading down a garden path. The trickling stream had turned into a silver ribbon which meandered through the vale and disappeared around tiny Coyote Hill. Life is but a dream!
Thor’s hammer crashed down behind me with a blinding flash. Perhaps we had worn out our welcome in God’s country…
A barking dog jolted me from my spell. Suddenly I was back in the twenty-first century and the Garden of Eden had been subdivided. I looked back at our old house where the barking had emanated. A cold shiver crept up my spine. Was it Dusty? No. She had passed on several years ago. It must have been in my mind with the other sweet memories ‒ like the day we walked to Valhalla.