Watching Isaac

A couple of weeks ago we went with Isaac and Hannah, ages 2 and 5, to Cottonwood Pass, above Buena Vista, Colorado.

On the eight-mile ride up from the only stoplight in town, I watched the roadside vegetation change from scrub desert to pine forest, then to scree and to snow as we rose above treeline. I marveled at the ease of traveling to the Continental Divide, commenting aloud on the courage and the strength of pioneers who made this journey on wagon and mule or slogged their way on foot.

As we gained elevation, I yawned to pop my ears. How, I wondered, would the children's mom and dad, in the other car of our caravan, explain what was happening to them, the effects of thinner and thinner air with such rapid ascent?

We pulled to the roadside at the top of the pass.

Stepping out of the car, I stood in awe, speechless, at the vastness of the cliffs and bowl to the east, the sloping valley to the west--stunned into silence once again by the connection I felt with the whole of the continent we live on.

In the snow I could hear the crashing of waves, of oceans waiting far below.

I imagined the journey of a drop of melting glacier, the fields it would water, the towns it would nourish, the thirsts it would slake. Cumulus clouds and the slight smell of rain reminded me that even the water's journey would be a long one.

Magic. Pure magic, my imagination set loose into reverie. Soaking in the vastness of it all, once again I felt small and insignificant, reminded of the Great Mystery of so much of life.

Isaac, upon being set down out of his car seat, went instantly to the roadside and picked up one, two, three pieces of granite. Hannah ran to the trail, scooped up a handful of icy June snow.

The adults looked around, in quiet mumbles breathing in the grandeur of the place and the moment. For us it was a spiritual time, a connection of sorts with the power of the Universe.

I was grateful to be alive.

Isaac stacked rocks, one on top of another. Hannah bent over to taste the summertime snow.