Either Audubon or Muir called Glacier National Park a place with "care-killing scenery," and that's what it is. When work is ridiculous and tiring, I forget it when I step outside and see the mountains. The Blue Ridge is (are?) really nothing in comparison. We have this peaceful coexistence thing going with the big-horn sheep, the marmots, the Columbian ground squirrels (who sound like birds and are nicknamed whistle-pigs), and we just let awe take over in case of bears and moose. I saw a moose swimming across the lake one day, only its head above the water.
My motto for the summer is "The world needs all kinds of people." Slow hikers and non-hikers in addition to hard-core, race-ya-to-the-top hikers. Reserved alongside gregarious, sweet next to salty. We can't do without each other, no matter how one type dominates in certain settings. And if one's gifts are private and hidden rather than obvious to all, they're just as valuable and dazzling as the easily-spotted ones. This comes, as most of my insights do, after a childish fight with the way things are. I got here and felt like a slow-hiking, taciturn fuddy-duddy. It took me a while to realize those first two terms don't make me inferior to anyone who walks fast or talks a lot. Hence the motto.
I had planned a much grander blog post, having waited so long to write it (the internet at the hotel is--shudder--dial-up, so I'm now in Canada, in the parking lot of a Safeway, which for some reason has WiFi). I think you've got the gist of my summer so far, grand or not. I'm sending you the wind on the lake, the reflection of the trees, a patch of snow the shape of South America, someone eating a bug on the front porch, profoundly inane conversation, sweet fatigue, and knowing on the steep way up that you get to take it easy on the return. I'm going to try to get some pictures up, a lame simulacrum being better than nothing. I can't really see them, so I've picked three more or less at random. Enjoy.
