Today I went for a “Sunday” stroll.
Sunday is a relative term, as my Sundays tend to fall on Tuesdays, but that’s besides the point.
My “Sunday stroll” began later in the morning, as most things planned for a “Sunday” should.
The morning was warm. Warm enough for shorts and t-shirts. A cool breeze blew off the swift moving water of Deer Creek, kicking the scent of decomposing pine needles and Aspen leaves up into the clear Rocky Mountain air.
Rocks and boulders disturbed by the melting snowpack littered the trail and a perpetual trickle of snow melt carved a deep groove in the soil, washing the dust from our boots as we wandered our way up into the woods.
There wasn’t a soul in sight, but for the creatures of the wild lingering in the shade of the dense Lodgepole forest. Only the the singsong twitter of the birds, the rush of the water pouring over beaver dams before settling back into the creek bed, and the whistle of the wind winding its way through the trees.
Somewhere along our stroll, we picked up another dog. A dog whose name was Lucky and whose tag requested that Lucky be dropped back off in Montezuma after our hike. No phone number, no address, just a brief note from the town that Lucky calls his own.
Lucky, Abbey and Rome raced up the hillside, laughing in the steely face of Red Cone. Whipping their way through the pinks and blues and reds of the wildflowers that claimed the marshlands. Galloping after marmots and pika and galumphing into the creek for refreshing dip, before sprinting off to “tree” the next squirrel that crossed their path.
The five of us lunched in a grass green valley, complimented by Indian Paintbrush that glowed orange among the the grays of the rock and green of the grass.
The sky was blue. Bluer than I’ve ever seen it, with not a cloud on the horizon. The sunshine blew soft kisses over our cool skin, warming it as the breeze flurried through the air.
Glacier Mountain towered over us five, while the mighty peaks of Grays and Torreys stood a silent watch over the valley; and while we are but a few small peoples in the midst of the wild world, we were secure in our Sunday stroll.