John McWhirter: Study of Wildflowers (19th-20th century)

"No camera could have captured what we witnessed there…"

The Muse and I feel fortunate to live off the better beaten paths. Despite the difficulties we experience trying to find a decent loaf of bread here, many subtle positive externalities surround us. At our age, this place, this “valley they liked so well they named it twice,” its scale suits us even if the politics and parochial perspectives don't always please. Many of our age have relocated here, imagining a safe haven within which to age, only to find healthcare difficult to access and often unavailable at any price. Furthermore, for those accustomed to the narrow range of weather found west of the Cascades, our climate can prove tiring, with endless weeks of temperatures in the nineties throughout summer and months of dreary fog accompanying each winter. Water seems as scarce as Trader Joeses, Costcos, and Targets. Lately, several old familiar businesses have closed. Our economy suddenly seems to be on a downward spiral.

The compensations sometimes seem few and far between, for they remain subtle. Streets shaded with ancient trees and enviable viewsheds. Our local Blue Mountains have never been rated in the same class as a thousand other more immediately impressive ranges, for these might seem like relatively low-slung ridges to anyone familiar with the Wasatch or Colorado's Front Range. Like I said, our attractions remain steadfastly subtle and require some delving to experience. The Muse and I were guided on a short hike up and into the headwaters of our local river yesterday. This tour proved to be a revelation. It seemed to happen in an alternate place and time, not a scant hour from our home, not near the end of a blisteringly dry July. It occurred in a forest primeval, to borrow Longfellow's apt term, a place unimaginable from its surroundings. Our walk fully qualified as magical.

Here comes the part of the story that overflows with gushing superlatives, except it won't. I have no adequate words to describe the visual spectacle we found there, with wildflowers in great variety and profusion. Far from the barren-seeming and blistering landscape we had left behind on the valley floor, this forest trail felt cool, even humid, shaded by old-growth pine and fir, and apparently very well-watered. We followed what began as a seeping spring until it quickly turned into a trickling stream, then into what might believably eventually turn into a river. The water was cold and refreshing, suggesting it had trickled up from shallow aquifer, perhaps fed by more than just last winter's snow cover. This forest seemed, above all, mysterious.

Between us, we managed to identify many of the wildflowers. Some seemed curiously out of season as if Spring had somehow survived there until the very edge of August. Bees worked the Monk's Hood blossoms, crawling up and into their cups to almost completely cover up their bodies as they worked. A few of the region's indigenous butterflies floated among us as we greedily fell upon huckleberries and currents in relative profusion. We had been transported up and away from our everyday lives, as if we were taking a vacation to some foreign place, except that so much of it seemed all too familiar.

I reflected how dry and rocky Colorado had seemed when we lived up there so high.` We were considerably lower here, and the trail seemed softly padded. I speculated that the same Loess soil that has been trickling down on this corner of the world since time immemorial had also graced this place, leaving the trail soft underfoot instead of torturous. What curious forest this seemed with its edges sanded so smooth. We happened upon a moose, a lone female who seemed to have been mucking around in a swampy bottom. She appeared slightly offended that we would interrupt her munching. She slipped up the mountainside to give us the stinkeye as we passed.

We came back. By midafternoon, we'd returned to The Villa only a little worse for wear, for we are not regular hikers. The Muse's knees will be screaming at her for the next few weeks, but neither of us will regret this respite for a second. We commented to each other later how much more closely we related to this valley after having explored the source of our rather modest river. We experienced the achingly lovely machinery required to produce its midsummer flow and the delicacy we so utterly depend upon to live here. I already feel like a better steward of this place, having witnessed its water source working. The Muse insists that this place remain a relative secret. She doesn't want to see parking problems at trailheads like those on the other side of the state, but I suspect our wilderness might prove too subtle for those who require rock prominences and mighty rivers to impress them. Native honeysuckles and asters make quiet companions, reassuring, only subtly impressive. We took no pictures. No camera could have captured what we witnessed there, anyway.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz