Awaiting the storm

I settled in at Lawn Lake late morning, eager to climb to the saddle between Hague’s Peak and Fairchild Mountain. Mummy Mountain towered thee thousand feet above my campsite, nestled in the bowl created by the three. I shed my pack, grabbed binochs, lunch and a few extra layers and headed uphill through wildflowers threaded by meltwater creeks.

Just above treeline, switchbacking up through alpine meadows, I met a man on his way down. We exchanged greetings then he asked my destination. “Up as high as I can get!” I answered. And he pointed behind me to darkening cumulous clouds pouring over the mountain. “Keeping an eye on the weather?” he asked then told me he was headed back to tree line. I followed.

I was back at my campsite by 12:30 am, humbled and facing an afternoon with my own company. Like many in my generation, I have gotten used to being entertained. I don’t require much: a hike across the prairie or a good book will do, but I was facing eight hours till dark and a pending thunderstorm.

I sat on a rock and leaned back against a tree, skimming my western bird book. Perhaps because of my stillness, or perhaps because of an innate curiosity, a marmot approached my tent, paused and edged closer and closer still. Then he ran, his tail inscribing circles behind. A chirp behind me introduced me to two more, touching noses and tussling. Fascinated, I watched marmots come and go, wander close and run away, court each other, mate, and stand on their hind legs to eat, holding some morsel between their front paws.

I wandered down to the lake keeping an eye on the boiling clouds, and scanned the surrounding peaks, at the saddle, I searched out the trail and was surprised to see people headed down. Still, I felt gratitude rather than resentment at the advice to turn back. I paused to look closely at the wildflowers that carpeted any open area, their form and colors – none familiar, but all remarkable for surviving at 11,000 feet. Back at my campsite, I thumbed through the Lone Pine guide to Rocky Mountain Wildflowers and wondered why I’d left my reading book in the car.

A scolding in the trees above alerted me to a Clark’s Nutcracker, a bird whose social behavior I had studied in college, and a life bird. Another movement caught my eye and I looked up to see a mule deer crossing above my campsite. Unaware of my presence, she paused to graze before moving on. Thunder rumbled over Mummy Mountain. I crawled into my tent and found myself drowsy.

Thunder abated and the sky cleared, the storm never fully materializing. I resolved to wake early and try again before the clouds blew in. How rarely I take a moment, let alone an afternoon to sit still without the distraction of some other task, and again, how humble I felt at the challenge of awaiting the storm.