A Weather Report: The Banality of April

Spring has invaded the Missoula valley. Life is everywhere as the leaves pop from their buds on the tree branches. They offer a source of food for the wild life that roams throughout the city. Just the other day, I passed a herd of deer gorging themselves on the campus bushes. Everywhere I look, the cycle begins again. As I gaze into the mountains, I see the retreating snow line. On warm and sunny days such as today, the pink light of twilight reflects off of the snow fields on Lolo Peak to the southwest and Stuart Peak to the north. In those moments, the snow looks as if it is ablaze with the power of the day's waning sun.

Winter is in its death throes. Yes, spring pours its abundant wealth and life liberally upon the earth!

A Weather Report: Spring

I went outside and enjoyed the warmer temperatures today. It has been far too long since I did any trail running. My winter routine has kept me confined to an indoor track on campus. Like a caged animal, I would circle around and around, back and forth. I waited and watched the sky for the tell-tale signs of spring and the time when I could break loose from the indoor cage.

Slowly, the earth comes back to life after a cold winter.

I first knew spring was coming about a week ago. The day was cold and snowy. But, as I rode my bike home in the late afternoon hours, the clouds began to break in the west. I peddled through a heavy snow squall, and I watched as the sun broke free from the February sleet. I gazed in awe as its radiant face slipped behind Lolo Peak to the west of Missoula. This was my first glimpse of the sun since early February. It changed everything. Despite the falling snows and cold wind, the birds began to sing. At first it was only one voice. But soon an entire choir joined the lone soloist. It reminded me of how the birds would sing after a summer rain storm. At that moment, I knew the world was coming back to life. The seasons will change, and barrenness is always overshadowed by new life.

I was thinking about those birds as I ran down the trail today. The temperature has warmed considerably since that snowy afternoon just over a week ago. As I ran, the signs of spring seemed to be everywhere. Even the air smelled of rebirth and life. The wonders were stimulating, and I was so consumed by the sights, sounds, and smells, that I forgot to watch the ground in front of me. Only a quick hop made me avoid a rather large and nasty pile of animal droppings.

I turned to have a closer look at the pile before continuing on my way. I instantly recognized the droppings as those of a bear. They were fairly fresh. I guess this means that our furry friends are beginning to stir from hibernation. It won't be long until I see black bears wandering through the streets and yards of Missoula's outlying areas. (Which is something I've found as an intriguing, albeit sad, juxtaposition between their world and mine, but that's another story...)

The temperature warms. The birds sing. The bears go about their normal routines. The world is awakening with precious and fragile life. Creation begins again. If you look closely, if you listen hard enough, you will see the world rub its eyes and yawn. And, if you are very lucky, perhaps you will even see the face of God.

Mount Sentinel

Two naked, treeless goddesses stand watch over the Missoula valley. Mount Sentinel and Mount Jumbo (seen at right) rise to heights of 5158’ and 4768’ respectively. Together, they each loom two thousand feet above the valley floor. They are the ancient guardians of the valley. The eastern traveler who enters Missoula cannot miss either one. Interstate 90 passes through the narrow gap that separates these two giants. Historically, the squeeze is known as Hell Gate Canyon. The Blackfeet Indians would lie in ambush for the numerous western tribes who would use the pass on their way to the fertile buffalo ground of eastern Montana. Mounts Sentinel and Jumbo stand witness to a long and proud history. I wonder what their futures will bring?

Yesterday, I climbed Mount Sentinel. This was my second hike to the summit since I moved to Missoula. The last time was during the previous May. I went with a friend, and we both had just completed a year of graduate courses at the university. As I climbed yesterday, I couldn’t help but think about how much has changed since last May. My friend went on to further graduate school in New England. I spent an entire season in the heart of the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, where I fell in love with the most wonderful woman I have ever met. As I climbed, I thought if the juxtaposition of timelessness and change.

Certainly the mountain I climbed has seen its changes. Missoula is at the confluence of five glacial valleys. Where I now sit and type at my computer was once covered by an ancient lake. At some point, the glaciers gave way, and the contents of the lake spewed to the west. I’ve heard it said that not even the rocks live forever. But the land, even though it changes, seems to outlast us all. As I put one foot in front of the other and climbed, I wondered how many countless people have summited this mountain before me. What were their hopes and dreams? Who did they love? I felt a strange connection to these unknown individuals.

As I climbed, I saw tracks in the snowy mud. Deer (likely mule deer), elk, dogs (likely pets) and even a mountain lion where scattered among the human footprints. Few people other than avid hikers and backpackers realize that animals also use the trails created by man through the wilderness. Like flowing water, animals will also follow the path of least resistance. I will admit, the fresh mountain lion tracks did make me glance over my shoulder every few dozen yards. Having encountered them before, little scares me more than the prospect of being stalked by a mountain lion (not even grizzly bears). Nevertheless, I climbed upward. There is a certain risk in hiking and backpacking. It’s something I am perfectly willing to accept.

I stood at the summit and beheld the fog shrouded valley below. Here I felt at home. I don’t belong in the valley. I realized this when I returned last summer, having not used the internet, had a phone conversation, watched a television or used an automobile for an entire season. That world makes no sense to me. Missoula is a high altitude desert. Yet the university insists on keeping the grass green and well groomed throughout the summer season. The sight of sprinklers and riding law-mowers made me livid last September. I spent considerable time watching people. Everyone was in a hurry, on a phone, on a computer, talking about the latest Hollywood movies. I don’t understand that world. Perhaps I never did.

As I stood at the summit of Mount Sentinel and beheld the valley, I couldn’t help but smile and laugh. The rocks may not last forever, but one thing is for sure. These mountains will outlast our civilization. There is nothing sacred about our culture or democracy. Ask the Greeks who outlived Pericles. Or the Romans who saw the end of the Republic. America, too, will fall. The history our students fail to learn in school is stacked against us. No civilization has yet endured beyond geological forces. The mountains will live on. What will they overlook in a thousand years? Will Mount Sentinel silently stand guard over the ruins of our civilization?

A Cult of Domesticity

The air was crisp and chilled on Christmas Eve as I ran down the highway. Several years passed since the last time my feet glided across this stretch of Iowa asphalt. Despite the fact that I'd only recently recovered from mono, I had to run outside on Christmas Eve. Particularly, I had to run on this mostly abandoned highway at sundown. I remembered what happened the last time, and I was curious if they were still waiting for me.

Three years ago, I ran down this same highway at twilight on a windy Christmas Eve. I passed a small gathering along the side of the road. As I approached, they all came to the fence and stared at me as I passed by. One by one, their heads turned as I passed within an arm's reach of their long faces and beady eyes. They looked so sad on Christmas. Yet they seemed to silently cheer me onward. It was as if my arrival had been foretold, and all gathered by the fence as I passed. Some of them gave snorts of approval. Others nodded their heads rapidly up and down as if bowing before my fast-moving presence. One even relived himself (What, were you expecting gold, frankincense, and myrrh?).

I ran past the solemn Christmas celebration and thought little of it. Only on my return trip did I feel uneasy and paranoid with the patient praise these fellows seemed to be giving me. The gathering was still motionless at the fence. Waiting. Looking down the highway at me once again. It was as if they knew I would return. I passed by, and once again every wood-like face turned in unison as I ran toward my grandparents' house. A few hundred yards later, I flipped a glance over my shoulder. They were still congregated at the fence watching me as I ran off into the sunset.

The last time I looked, they continued to watch as I slowly faded into the wanning Christmas Eve daylight.

Sure enough, the gathering was still waiting for me at the fence when I returned on Christmas Eve this year. I had been absent three years. Yet these simple creatures appeared to wait in the same position. They gathered at the fence and stared as I came down the highway. I wonder what they expected from me. A miracle? One who would save and deliver them from their bondage? The Meschiach?

Or maybe I read too much into the random acts of domesticated animals. Perhaps they were simply llamas. Yes, perhaps they were llamas with nothing better to do on Christmas Eve than wait by a fence for three years to see a skinny white boy break a 4:50 mile. A miracle? A messiah?

Foolish llamas!