There's something inside that feels beckoned by places like this.
The gravely road is a cool colored rainbow of greens, and purples, and blues and greys, and whites. It reminds me of the uniqueness of this canyon.
I glance up and see thick pines like the hair on a young man’s head sitting just below the cliffy summits.
I hike a few minutes up with amazement at the sheer amount of acorns and feces scattered between the slate stones. Both a testament that there has been no shortage of food this year.
A rustling in the bushes occasionally lifts my head in time to see an overfull squirrel hurrying along the ground to the cover of another oak.
Slate Canyon is quiet. It feels very similar to it’s twin brother Rock Canyon but in the whole time I have been here, I haven’t seen one person.
I spot a craggy boulder up on the hill and decide to make it my goal as a sitting spot to watch the coming rain.
There's something inside that feels beckoned to observe the rain. To be in it. Or maybe it’s in me. The longer I walk the more I feel that this is where I belong. Not so much leaving, but returning.
I see a break in the wall of trees as an empty river bend connects with the trail, and I take this chance to access the canyon walls.
As I climb gently I become deeply aware of my feet and hands. My body works as carefully as it can up the crumbly walls.
It looks like someone else is here, or has been. I see dirt matted down and what look like footprints. I see broken stones and a trail in the vertical rock. The feces tell me that even if there were other humans, there were also goats which puts me at ease. Something inside feels that a conversation might pop the bubble of this magic.
I scale to the top placing too much faith in some holds, and not enough in others. Coming out of the trees the light seems to shine brighter through the rainclouds here and I am greeted with the thunderous symphony of dragonflies They zig and zag catching their share of dinner. I don’t know what they eat, but I can only hope there will be one less mosquito.
Rocks crumble around me in the silence and I am surprised at the noise. Perhaps some careless goat sent them careening down into the river bed below.
Distant crickets sing their lullaby and I wonder.
The flutter of wings, the buzz of bees, the chirp of birds, the clatter of goats give me so much sound I barely hear the distant chorus of car engines below.
With the rain on my face, and it’s peaceful tapping on the plants I don’t feel like I am away. I am here. And here is home.
Something inside or out beckoned me to the mountains today.
And I hear the whole canyon and the whole world whisper
I love you.
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