Got Roots?
(In Bob Ross' voice) Needed some "happy little trees" this week :)
This week I accompanied a friend, Heidi, on her wildflower training tour. She’s been a guide since 2014 and definitely knows her leaf formations. We gathered alongside a couple dozen other guides to get instruction before we ventured our way around Silver Lake up to Solitude looking for flowers.
Before I could take a pulse on what was happening, the executive director of the wildflower tours stood on the table and launched into the seven principles of Leave No Trace using theatrical hand signals. She held out her right pointer finger—one—and began drawing squiggles on her left palm to signal making a plan. We need to tell people where we’re hiking. When we’re leaving and when we plan to get back. Two, she flipped her peace sign into a tent on her forearm reminding us to camp on durable surfaces. Her fingers then forked out in a comb—three—as she walked us through how to dispose of our waste properly. Pack it out or worst case bury it six inches deep.
Surveying the group of guides, it looked like an REI warehouse sale had a baby with a church summer camp. There was a vast assortment of hiking boots, wide brimmed hats and fanny packs. Though helpful to the lay public, the bright white “GUIDE” on the back of their t-shirts was entirely unnecessary. I knew these folks could identify anything on the forage floor from a hundred yards away.
I’ve never attended a wildflower hike before, but it only took a few minutes to realize how much heavy lifting the “hiking” description was doing. The “hike” felt more like a saunter. Crawl, maybe? I can’t remember the last time I moved this slowly in any given circumstance and it required quite a bit of bandwidth to overwrite my typical hiking speed coding.
As we made our way around, it became a trail game of telephone passing word of every new flower sighting to the group following behind. Did you see the Lupin? More Bluebells! I admittedly couldn’t focus much on the flowers because my attention was entirely centered the hyperfixations of all of these strangers. At one point I questioned if I’ve ever felt passion in my life. Certainly nothing I’ve experienced could touch Doug’s interest in the green foliage False Hellebore.
While most were looking down, I found my gaze set on the ridge line rather than the trail. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the sunlight seeping through the towering aspens. Something about that pillar of light, you know? It feels revelatory and grounding.
At one point, the man “hiking” in front of me asked like he was sharing gossip, “Have you heard about the aspens?”
“No,” I said eager for the tea.
