Upper Rio Grande valley, Colorado, a couple summers ago. Last episode we left our heroes staring right into a dense, miserable forest. There was no way to finish the hike to the mountain top with that hideous forest in the way, so I was resigned to retreat. But what was that barely noticeable lightness hiding behind the forest's black curtain? I must have been intrigued--what else would make me wade in through that junk?
It was a small meadow, an island of light and air, surrounded by dreary, dark forest. I really didn't know that such islands existed. Sailors must feel like this when they discover a small, secret cove that isn't on the charts; it instantly becomes their own little paradise; the rest of the world becomes uninteresting to them.
Rather than break out onto the grassy slope on the way home, I decided to walk along this shoreline of forest and grass, and plunge into the arboreal netherworld whenever there might be another of these little garden-meadows. It was an exercise in teasing, the way a beachcomber steps too close to the water one minute and gets cold feet, and then turns inland a few steps and feels hot sand. One of the most interesting sensations is that of pain and pleasure at the same time, rather than in a neutral, canceling sort of way. It's like tasting sweet and sour on different sections of the tongue. Then something new caught my eye: a pink wild rose.
It was a small meadow, an island of light and air, surrounded by dreary, dark forest. I really didn't know that such islands existed. Sailors must feel like this when they discover a small, secret cove that isn't on the charts; it instantly becomes their own little paradise; the rest of the world becomes uninteresting to them.
Rather than break out onto the grassy slope on the way home, I decided to walk along this shoreline of forest and grass, and plunge into the arboreal netherworld whenever there might be another of these little garden-meadows. It was an exercise in teasing, the way a beachcomber steps too close to the water one minute and gets cold feet, and then turns inland a few steps and feels hot sand. One of the most interesting sensations is that of pain and pleasure at the same time, rather than in a neutral, canceling sort of way. It's like tasting sweet and sour on different sections of the tongue. Then something new caught my eye: a pink wild rose.
Once I asked an RV friend from Alberta ("Wild Rose" license plates) if he had ever seen a wild rose. His answer was, Yea once. Ever since then I've thought they were rare and exotic. A few minutes later they started looking as exotic as dandelions. I was crushed. How can you feel so rich when you have a little of something, and feel so poor when you have more of it?
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The more I have the less I enjoy it--