By Ed Lambert, Salida, CO
Buried in waist-deep snow,
this century-old, mostly abandoned roadway
is a pleasant cross-country ski among healthy pines
to airy 11,375 feet windblown, old Monarch Pass summit.
Meandering north and south from here,
this twisting ridge of cold granite,
a massive, magnificent swelling of earth,
divides the North American continent,
like God parting, for His chosen, the Red Sea,
splits the pristine, frigid plentiful waters born here,
that then flow great distances east or west,
eventually stirring into salt-water bosom of Atlantic or Pacific.
Here,
I feel the endless abyss of time before now,
when earth was newborn fresh
and extending eternally beyond now,
the ever downward flowing divided waters,
wearing away Earth’s crust,
forming water-filled canyons that lead to expansive valleys,
and mature rivers,
to the east, the Arkansas;
the west, the Gunnison,
the south, the Rio Grande, and
the ever constant, muscular winds,
an indomitable force like water,
shaping, smoothing, sculpting in its airy path
this barren rock strewn ridge.
I gaze upon distant horizons,
the majestic first architecture of world’s creation,
the hard border between earth and heaven.
Western, like a smooth line of an electrocardiogram,
interrupted with occasional bumps,
Uncompahgre, Red Cloud, Sunshine Peaks,
rising above vast blankets of pine forests,
colored shades of blue and green.
Eastern, interrupted with abrupt, naked Mt. Etna,
and beyond in the misty great distance Pikes Peak.
Northern, Sawatch Range humped with Shavano,
Tabeguache, Antero, Princeton.
Southern, looms for endless miles, Sangre de Cristos, San Juan ranges
Then disappears into distant New Mexico haze.
I pause at this high point of Old Monarch Pass,
my warm blood quickly chills,
bluntly reminding me
that all life here, plants, trees, untamed animals, humanity,
struggles to survive
this adversity of freezing cold, powerful wind and oxygen thin air.
I extend for a few short moments
my defiance of brutal, hard nature
so I may cherish this Earth architecture.
It is my blessing to be here.
Although I am solitary, I am not alone.
The spirit of those who have stood here before now,
Native Americans, Spanish, fur and gold seekers,
pioneers, Gunnison, Palmer, road, railroad builders,
Murray*
those and the spirit of the universal creator
companion my spirit.
Their language blends with the voice of the wind,
tells of infinite time,
the brevity of human life,
the immensity of creation,
of nature, of this universe, of His grandness,
of human inconsequence amid this.
As if I can touch the vast, the infinite before me,
silently, reverently, I turn the cardinal directions
my arms raised toward the nearby heavens,
my humble worship of creation.
* (Although I was not there at the time to witness the spreading of his ashes on Old Monarch Pass, Murray Marks was a dear friend, a wonderful, most engaging, intelligent, and exemplary human being. I fondly also think of him when I ski there.)
