“It has been said that trees are imperfect men, and seem to bemoan their imprisonment rooted in the ground. But they never seem so to me. I never saw a discontented tree. They grip the ground as though they liked it, and though fast rooted they travel about as far as we do. They go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far!” – John Muir
Revisiting the Trail-side Tree-house….
My older son and I were hiking the Desolation Trail back in July of this year and happened to visit the tree-house that I featured in this post, Trail-side Tree-house, from June of last year. You might remember the little purple door in the base of tree? Well, it looks like someone has done a little bit of renovation or remodeling in the last year and some months….
Here’s another view from a little more to the right….
Nobody answered when we knocked on the door….
My son noticed this little lock-box hanging in the branches on the left side of the tree…and among other things, there was a little notebook inside.
“Peace of the breeze…joy of the sun….”
“There’s no wi-fi out here, but I promise you, the connection is much better.”
Many of the other entries pertained to people remembering their dogs who have passed over the years, but who loved to join their human companions out on the trails of Millcreek Canyon.
did you ever…
…look at things is if you might never see them again…?
I imagine that we would see those things with a certain richness…
…one that would surpass the experience of when we first saw them.
I think it would be bittersweet, as well…
…for while we would be sad that we would never see them again, we would be joyous that we had ever beheld them at all….
We mark ourselves here as a tiny part of that something-greater, a piece of the mystery and puzzle and wonder that is life…be it an accident or a gift, we do well to cherish it….
come walk with me
on a sunday morning
feel the crisp air on your face and the warming sun on your back as we follow the trail off and into the waiting mountains
turn around and marvel at the white bark glowing in the sunrise
winter-bare aspen preparing for the cold
the rich greenery of summer’s forest floor has turned golden and brown and looks bleak without the morning’s sun
but we are here with the waking day
rejoicing at the trail beneath our feet and the burning in our legs and lungs as we press ever upward from valley floor to mountain top
come walk with me and sing our quiet sunday song