…picking-up where we left-off in “One hike…and 23 wildflowers…part one“….
To be continued one more time….
A couple of weeks ago, I finally managed to find the upper falls in Bells Canyon, just south and east of Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. My last ventures up into this particular part of the canyon had been in December and February, and there was still three and more feet of snow on the ground. Accumulation of that amount makes it hard to find and follow the trails that are so evident at other times of the year. The scene in this photograph is from an area above those upper falls…as I continued to explore, looking for the trail that leads to the upper reservoir. As this was all new territory for me, it was all I could do sometimes to keep my eyes on the trail so that I would be going forward…I could have stood there for tens of minutes or more at each new vista and would have never made it anywhere on the hike…such a beautiful place….
This was a longish hike, to Lambs Canyon Pass and beyond, part of which I had made before…once in the middle of January or February when I had turned around 30 yards shy of the pass, as the snow was over my knees and making the hike more work than fun. At any rate, I set out this past Sunday to accomplish the entire trail, two miles along the Pipeline Trail in Millcreek Canyon to the trailhead just beyond Elbow Fork, two miles up to the pass, and then another two miles down to the road in Lambs Canyon…and then turned around and did it all in reverse order to make it home again. As I began the hike, I noticed different flowers that appeared in single bunches or individual plants and then didn’t notice any others of their kind anywhere along the trail…so I started taking pictures of what I found…and as the hours and miles ticked by, I thought about all of the different flowers that I had encountered and couldn’t help but smile and think of Allen from New Hampshire Garden Solutions and his comments on earlier posts, something to the effect of “Wow…that looks like a good place to find a bunch of wildflowers.” If you aren’t familiar with Allen’s blog, I highly recommend a visit…it’s chock-full of beautiful photographs of wildflowers and plants that he encounters during his own forays into the wild, as well as those from his garden and other New Hampshire locations that he frequents…each post of photographs also includes an interesting narrative about each plant. So here you are, Allen…part one of three. The photos aren’t of the best quality, as the morning sun was quite bright and caused a bit of over-exposure on some of them, but I think they are still a fair representation of the natural beauty of the flowers as they adorned the trail to Lambs Canyon.
to be continued….
We had started our Saturday morning exploring downtown, looking at murals and talking about what they meant, my little one and I. After getting a bite to eat, he asked if we could take a drive into the mountains…magical words to my mountain-yearning soul. We drove to the end of Big Cottonwood Canyon and pulled over at Guardsman Pass…where the road turns to dirt for a mile or so and then leads to Park City. We have been on the road before, but had never stopped there for longer than a few minutes…and I had never hiked the trails leading away from the pull-out, either. My little one asked if we could go for a hike…and as we didn’t have a back-pack with snacks and water, I told him that we would just go for a little bit of a walk, but nothing too long. We were on the trail for maybe ten minutes when we saw water sparkling ahead of us. As I had never been there before, I didn’t know what lake or body of water it might be. Earlier in the week, I had mentioned that we might go to Silver Lake, down in American Fork Canyon…and as coincidence would have it, the little lake we found also happened to be named Silver Lake…rather, it was one of three small lakes/ponds that are part of what is labeled as “Silver Islets” on our map of the three main canyons in our Wasatch Front.
The water-wheel is located in Brigham Young Historic Park, just a couple of blocks east of the Mormon temple in downtown Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. The park is a memorial to the pioneer religious and civic leader who brought his flock from the eastern states in the mid-1800s, seeking a place where they could practice their faith without scrutiny or conflict…. I have read that the park was established on land that was once part of Young’s family farm…choice land that is just across the street from City Creek, the initial and primary source of drinking and irrigation water for the Mormon pioneers when they settled in the Salt Lake Valley.
The man sat in the dark and thought of the pictures on the wall and the eyes that looked out from their frozen images of faces and whatnot in the chemicals that held them in such places from their making until they left in some manner or other, moved to another wall, moved to another house, passed among the things that leave when he would leave on that unknown date and then. The eyes that could bore through their selved-images into the eyes of the man who sat in the chair with heavy lids and pondered those things as night wound into itself and him and the sounds of day’s passing had become the creaking and yawning of the presence of its neighbor and twin, the one who exists on the other side of the thoughts of himself.
Picture frames glowing or reflecting the light that sneaks in through the windows from the posted light in the yard, that one thing that illuminates the darkened corners where what was present in the day has crawled into itself and themselves and exist only in shadow form or memory, but not sight, as they are hidden in the black and gray of their shadowed selves. Those eyes accuse and remember in their fixed gazes and the man stares at the blank middles of the frames at what he knows is there but cannot see for the passed and past day and the dark inside the four edges covers but doesn’t hide the faces he knows. Night doesn’t cover his heart and his wandering soul and it doesn’t relieve the ghosts that walk in his mind and in the fibers of the carpet and lay like a film inside the paint and wooded textures of stair railings and benches, those things that capture sounds and emotions as they are fleeing in their shouted births and deaths of echoes and remain.
Hollowed eyes and grins and thoughts and cheekbones and lips that lie in a stuck rictus, like painted and dead clowns and he doesn’t know who is inside, who is behind those portals of life and then, and he turns away and closes his eyes and hears the ringing in his ears as the cat talks not walks down the hall and a hidden beam somewhere in the wall creaks or sighs as the house wonders at the man in the chair in the dark, wonders at his thoughts and sitting there while others sleep and dream and think of nothing in the passing of the stars and moon in their circuits as the heater kicks on and whines through the vents and blows in its blowing and warmth of breath and stops with a shudder and how, as the man’s foot twitches as sleep tries to pull him deeper into the chair as his heart beats and beats and his eyes open at the cat’s passing and scratching on and of the one corner of the rug that has its frayed spot and spot as the eyes on the walls sleep in their openness and hide their thoughts in front of him as he looks away and remembers a younger self that fled a smile in furrowed brows and pursed lips of anger and rot, his eyes scorned and shaken and cast away and aside and down and away from any who would look.
He remembered the thick hand that smacked his mouth when his eyes were closed and thought the Divine was blind as the prayer was stuck in the swirl of ceiling paint as the black eyes bored into the smaller one’s eyes as his mouth throbbed and his heart ached and his mom sat at arm’s length away as her man’s hand smacked her child’s mouth and she kept her eyes closed as the sound echoed in her ears and she squeezed her eyes closed as she smelled the dinner cooling on the table in front of them and wondered how the paint could keep the prayer inside the ceiling as it rolled about and thinned against the summer air and finally withered and faded and was gone in the tears that rolled down his cheeks as hate breathes by itself in blank picture frames and white rocks cast along the way, tripping the travelers who dare not watch where they are walking, who are blind to the path and stumble in the dark footsteps that lumber ahead of them.
This is a Favorite Re-post from February, 2010.
The first shot isn’t real pretty…in fact, it’s probably technically ugly…but it provides context for the photos that follow….