The flora stands up and dances. Colors whirl in wind. The dance is not for us, but we watch, fascinated by the curves and motion, both delicate and bold, vibrant and mellow. Each is a small attraction, the beginning motion in a movement toward future seasons when colors will again spring from seeds gathered and scattered.
Some blossoms dance no higher than finger's width from the ground, tiny and strong amid a forest of short grasses. Fragile flames of flower emerge from gangs of tough, spiked characters hunched in rocky corners. Bundles of yellow gossip together.
This is dry countryside. Lushness is relative. The main ground-cover is still bare ground. I can stand and cast my eyes downward on plants that hold each other at arm's length, limited by scarce water to stand lonely in spare meadows. Still, if I lie low to the ground, I can look across the sweep of meadow and create the illusion of richness.
Trina, the dogs and I stroll up a rock canyon. The small creek is flowing in a thin trickle through salt-stained sands. Plants along the banks are more salt-tough than delicate. The slopes below canyon walls are blooming. The few cottonwood trees are leafing out and the branches are filled with songs of birds. We catch sight of one impossibly yellow bird whose color becomes lost in the bright green of the leaves. We sit beneath on mats of last year's leaves with powdered juniper-berry-blue speckled around us.
We scramble up the creek, over and under huge boulders that have fallen from the stone walls of the canyon. How long ago did these walls fall? For how long has the seasonal stream teased their bases? We do not know. But we find a boulder the size of our truck that has freshly sheared from the wall above and we see the path of smashed juniper trees and gouged earth and torn plants that mark its journey from canyon wall down the slope to creek-side. And we cast our eyes to the walls again, to wonder when the next will come down.
There is a small area on the slope where a trick of geology brings water near the surface. A water-loving cottonwood tree is perched on the side of the canyon. Nearby, in shadows, there is a rich moistness that will probably not last into summer. But for now there is a small sloping meadow filled with grasses and tiny sweet flowers. The dogs lay in the cool, moist earth, and we sit in the shade and admire plants.
Along our wending walk we encounter more birds and other creatures. There is a bull snake in the grass. It stays motionless, camouflage working, and the dogs walk right past it. A rock squirrel chatters at us, but stays high and safe on the canyon walls. Collared lizards pose for photos, their bright seasonal colors beginning to show. In the creek bottom, there is sign of a bear and bear tracks. We do not see the bear.
Near our first night's camp, the dogs encounter a creature of their liking. A long dead row of bones transports them into the past, to the ancient rite of wild dogs gnawing on a carcass. Sprocket is giddy with delight, happily gnawing away. Then he somehow manages to hook his collar tags onto one end of the carcass' entire spine and pelvis. After dragging it around for a few moments, he looks to us to come rescue him. Which, after laughing, we do.
We ride. The trail hugs a sandstone edge where time and wind and water have carved twisted tables and knobs and chambers and hollows. We swoop the curves, lunge up and down ledges, cross stone bridges. Our wide wheels whir and our faces curve into grins as we wend our way through the rocky playground.
We try to live our outdoor lives in balance. We balance our activity -- biking, hiking -- with inactivity. We lounge in camp with nothing to do except watch the world around us. Eat. Read books. Hold warm dogs in our laps. Crawl on the ground looking at tiny flowers. Examine seeds and minute critters.
After our second night of camping, morning storms surround us, sheeting rain or snow onto the high country. We stay dry, and the dogs and I take a short, early ride, mostly to appreciate the view. Soon the sun is shining, the sky bright, and the rock inviting. We ride again. The dogs chase us and lead us through the play-rock. The dogs have as much fun as we do.
We are reluctant to leave. We linger over lunch at the truck. We love to immerse ourselves in this, the flora, the fauna, the fun. But soon we gather our furry fauna, throw them into the back of the truck. We put the bikes back on the rack. We leave the wildflowers behind and head home to the flora that fills our garden. The fun isn't left behind. It follows us home.
--Greg
