Pike's Peak

Four thousand three hundred and twenty two.  That's how many steps it took me to walk around Holmes Lake this morning.  And, while the walk took me less than an hour, I kept wondering to myself how it is possible for a person to complete the trek in anything under eight days' time. Had I brought my little magnifying scope with me, I doubt very much that I would have made it to the bottom of the dam by now.  

Although Finn and I have a semi regular habit of heading to Holmes Lake on Sunday mornings, it was a character in a novel who nudged us out the door this morning.  Boy, am I glad Ambrose Pike showed up on page 196 of Elizabeth Gilbert's "The Signature of All Things."  I was starting to wonder why I was sticking with this book.  Although I appreciate the botanical and biological aspects of the story, I've been unimpressed with the self-absorbed, emotionally girdled main characters.  Pike, though, is another breed altogether, an open-faced sandwich of a man who delights in the curiosities of the natural world.

It was because of Pike's unabashed joy that Finn and I headed out the door before most of my neighbors had awakened this morning.  By the time we pulled into the parking lot, I found Pike's joy to be infectious.

Wide-eyed, Finn and I stumbled out of the car, straining to get our feet off the pavement.
Immediately, we were rewarded; first, with the quiet sight of a nesting blue-winged teal, waking slowly atop its nest along the bank.  Its neighbors, the swallows, though, already were buzzing the air for a morning bite to eat, chattering about strange dreams from the night before.

Really, it's a miracle Finn and I clocked even a hundred steps on our outing!

By the time we topped the dam, we were overwhelmed by bulbous, orange-tinged clouds reflecting off the glassy, still lake.  And, for just an instance, as I looked towards some houses abutting the dam, I mistook a handful of pink surprise lilies for two resting flamingos.

And so it went from there.  I can provide a count for those who prefer numbers:  two herons, a half a hundred swallows, eleven Canada geese, two dozen ducks, six solitary fishermen, one kayaker, two bicyclists, one runner.  But the count falls short of capturing the pleasure of time spent quietly out of doors.

This was not the first Sunday morning on the lake in which I wondered why a person would bother to go to church when there is all of God's wildness just outside the door.

I can still feel that walk in my feet, not because it was rigorous, but because it was magical.  I like to think that a stranger passing me on the trail would see it on me, like flecks of dew refracting light.  I like to think that Ambrose Pike would have enjoyed tagging along with us.