I find myself looking out of windows up at the vast labyrinth of canyons, ravines, peaks and forests that tower over Utah Valley. And I wonder, restlessly, when I will find myself among the trees, or more specifically, above them. The lower elevations are free of snow, and are full of excellent trails.
But I feel the lure of the high country.
I feel in many ways that I am being robbed of a summer. Events out of my control are dictating my life these days, and frankly, that doesn’t always leave me in the best of moods. Life is good. But there are days when I toss my hands up in exasperation as I utter something ridiculous and self-deprecating under my breath. Actually believing for a minute or two that my life is difficult.
And yet, I still look to the timberline with a melancholy homesickness.
The snow is melting, ever so slowly. And in my impatience, at the first opportunity I have, I will no doubt burst onto trails not yet ready to be ridden. I will post-hole through the snowy drifts, cursing them while I stumble. I will slip in the mud, and splash through frigid run off. Finishing the day with a muddy smile and sore legs.
The Wasatch Classic is in danger of being shortened, due to a thick white blanket still draped over the Crest. A string of hot sunny days could cure the problem. But so far this year, no such string has occurred. Like winter did, spring is lingering. But the extra rain and snow that continue to cancel races, and fill reservoirs is a two-edged sword. After all, the Wasatch Front is where mountain and desert meet. And water is always at a premium.
So while, my head whispers patience, my heart screams intolerance. My eyes watch carefully the receding snow line. And again I find myself wondering… when.