Slowly the high country is melting. The snow is dripping away filing streams and rivers and lakes. The air is warmer, brighter. The mountains greener, friendlier. Summer is at long last breaking the shackles of an over stayed winter. The Rockies are waking up.
Each spring blooms with lofty intentions. I want to explore that, ride this, and see there. Sometimes I am able to make good on those intentions. Other years, they remain stagnant members of the “to do” list. But the renewing of these intentions is a comforting annual occurrence that serves as a reminder that the call of the wild is alive and well.
And while duties at home will shorten the leash this summer, I can still know that there will be days when I raise my head and open my eyes to the vision of snaking singletrack stretching out before me as I glide atop a high ridge or through the deep pines. Those days, and even more accurately, the very prospect of those days are what keep the fires burning though long winters, and this year, long spring thaws.
I live for the high country. And while the desert is an old friend, it is the timberline that moves me most. It is feeling cold on a July day, the frigid flow of summer melt, the quaking aspens quietly swaying over head.
This year one of those intentions is to spend just a little more time listening. A little more time watching. A little more time simply being. The window for these trails is short lived, but I intend on extending that gap as long as I can.
Because just like every year, it closes to fast.