Leaving a Mark

It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look.  To affect the quality of the day – that is the highest of arts.”  Henry David Thoreau

I must have been desperate for a change of scenery because a couple of weeks ago, at the last minute I joined my husband, son and a couple of other brawny teenaged boys for a trip to Crankworx, a once a year world class competition of mountain biking’s best and brightest (?!?) involving death-defying mountain runs, truly suicidal stunt jumps, dust, blood and pain.  While my boys were mostly observers, every time they suited up in their protective gear, helmet, gloves, pads and body armor and set off on their bikes for a little audience participation I got a wee anxious.  By definition: if you have to wear something called “body armor” it’s too dangerous for your mother to watch.  Fortunately it was impossible to pick out my loved ones amidst the 20,000 or so people  on the mountain.  Mostly I just scanned the walking wounded on crutches and wheel chairs, wrapped like mummies and braced in slings to see if my anxiety was for naught.  Me, I was just along for the weekend at beautiful Whistler Mountain, loads of reading and lots of relaxing.  Did I mention that it was 34 Celcius?  Hot -  very, very, hot.

Saturday, in an effort to escape the stifling heat, the above mentioned crowds and our (unexpectedly, non-air conditioned)condo my husband and I took a gondola and then a chairlift to 7,000 feet.  Ah, somewhat cooler.  The blindingly bright sun was intense and the landscape was magnificent!  Among the fields of wildflowers I saw lupin, penstemon, creeping phlox, tiny yellow aquilegia and others I couldn’t even begin to identify.  It’s humbling to be in nature and realize that most of my horticultural knowledge (and I can bore most people to tears!) is strictly limited to ornamental and domesticated plants.

Along a rugged path along the ridge of the peak we came upon a series of small cairns, a traditional alpine trail marker to indicate safe passage.  I smiled.  Even here in the  midst of NATURE (writ large) – snowy peaks, miles of view and beautiful forests – someone had found a way to leave a mark, indicate their presence and intimately participate with this magnificent landscape.

A milky turquoise alpine lake was so cold I expected it to be viscous.  With my head in the blazing sun and my ankles freezing to the point of numbness I figured I was getting a cardio workout just standing there.    Little kids played in the remaining slushy snow fields (did you know that the pink cast on the remaining patches of summer snow indicate the presence of a fresh water algae that thrives in low temperatures?  It’s commonly called “watermelon snow“, and apparently gives off a slight melon-like fragrance.

An impressive number of hikers of all ages were out enjoying the day and escaping the heat and crowds, not to mention the blood and danger, on the mountain below.  The hardcore could be identified by their boots, walking sticks and the fact that they were coming UP the slopes while us day trippers – in sandles and a skirt – were headed DOWN the trail.  It’s not as easy as it sounds!  My poor 40*cough* knees were screaming with pain as I minced down the last few hundred feet to the lodge for a much deserved lunch and a cold beer!