Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops.
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories
this is somewhere off the trail to Blue Lakes in the Mnt Sneffels Wilderness area.
An afternoon of rock climbing found me at Treasure Lake as the sun was setting. I decided I would walk out onto a cliff that has a nice vantage point of the lake and try for a shot. this is one of those a million miles from anywhere places. As I am looking around wondering what the heck to shoot I hear, "hello" from behind me. I turn and find the ghost of John Muir perched on this small little ledge, feet dangling, while writing verse of some sort into his journal.
there was my shot.
we didn't really talk. other than me asking, "may I?" he nodded and I took a dozen or so shots. then he asked me how I knew of the place... I told him my grandfather started taking me here to fish when I was 5. he smiled and nodded... after a few minutes or so, he told me it was his favorite spot in the world.
We watched the light fade for a bit and then I nodded to him as I left. one of the more satisfying exchanges of the week.
(I've finally had some time to work on my image backlog. this is another from the summer... looking across the valley and up towards black bear pass... shot while on the way up Red Mnt 3. south of Ouray, Co.)
I find the map and draw a straight line Over rivers, farms, and state lines, The distance from 'A' to where you'd be. It's only finger-lengths that I see. I touch the place where I'd find your face, My fingers in creases of distant dark places...
[link] snow patrol - set the fire to the third bar