We are the condensations of spirit, sanctified sweat dripping from brows of sacred mountains. We are avatars of Solitude, hymns to Beauty, paeans to Misunderstanding. We are weary of ourselves, our failures. We play Atlas to the burdens of our insatiable longings and the weight of the consuming glory we have beheld but cannot express. Kyrie eleison; exaudi nos; miserere nobis.
Tom and I attempted a hike Saturday. We drove up Old Stage Road out of the Springs, which is an unpaved forest road. It was a bit icy. We drove for quite a bit, maybe ten miles(?) before turning off another forest road to get to the trailhead. It was a bit rougher than the main road. We only drove about a quarter mile when we encountered a large pool filled with ice and water. For whatever testosterone-prompted reason, we attempted to cross it and, well, failed. The pool was very deep and the right front tire wasn't even touching the bottom. We looked at each other in disbelief before piling out Tom's side. I had to put all my clothes on including my wind/rain shell because it was so windy and cold. We attempted various methods of providing traction, all to no avail. We even tried jacking up the jeep to put rocks/gravel under the back tire, with disastrous results. After the tire was in the air, the jack started to shift and I called out. Tom got out of the way just as the jack fell over and the jeep slid closer to the pool. Tom checked the cell phone. No service. We kept at it until, suddenly, the heavens parted and an angel named Christine in a Nissan Xterra with a lift kit came bounding down the road bearing shackles and a snatch strap. We were out in about 15 minutes.
After the debacle took some of the wind out of our sails, we decided to keep it short and hike down to a nearby lake/reservoir. Here are a few unspectacular snapshots I took with my little Nikon point-and-shoot. (The picture of the fox is from when we were still near the Broadmoor neighborhood just before starting up Old Stage Road.)
