Trekking Amongst the Dragons

Kearney Gulch as seen from twelve and thirteen thousand feet en-route to Grizzly Peak...

The day before, the sky turned the color of tar and slate. Dragon clouds slithered and coiled along the high peaks. Then, with a roar of sound and fury, the sky opened up. It rained like Africa. Borneo. Brazil. The dragons roared and growled way into the night, the sky illuminated by great flashes of false daylight. Perhaps the summer monsoons going out with a bang rather than a whimper.

I was not terribly thrilled to wake up to overcast and drizzle. There were places I wanted to go. I went about my morning; checking meteorological prophecy, feeding the hounds, making coffee and breakfast, the whole time, watching for a break in the clouds. A window in which to do what I wanted.

Auspiciously, eye for the main chance came about when I was wanting to leave anyway. I wasted no time getting to the summit of Loveland Pass. Even then, there was mist and rain amongst the fleeting shards of turquoise sky and sunlight.

What does that matter? I have a hardshell and a rain-fly for my pack. At nearly twelve-thousand to start, the breeze had a nip to it, making it my first walkabout in several months for my to wear my beanie; a black affair with African colors interspersed and tassels strung with Andean beads. Fucking fantastic.

For the first bit of the trek, the dragons curled about me, their foggy breath misting my spectacles now and again. I didn't mind their company. There was something memorizing about watching them slither and coil and frolic across the highest peaks and rust of the season-changing tundra.

 
Looking down at Grizzly Gulch...

I had a break in the clouds when I reached my stopping point. It is doubtful that either words or images could do what I saw justice. I would've stayed longer, but to the west, the sky was black. The dragons had been merciful during my trek, but that could change without warning. It would be hubris to assume the weather, though wet, was mild, just for the benefit of my walkabout.

An arrogant man would claim kith or kin to dragons. I've met those cats. As a joke, I could say because I have a tattoo with a pictogram for the word demon to correspond with the other pictogram for Man that further link with the mantra across my back; I and the Beast are One was a reason for the dragons being the way they were, respecting someone who endeavors to see to it that instinct and intellect work in concert, not conflict. In truth, it was most likely blind luck, and by virtue of oxygen deprivation I saw Chinese dragons frolicking across the high peaks in fantastical and sometimes ominous ways.

I suppose in making that observation I've removed any sense of whimsy from this meditation...

Heading down, the world would sometimes be enveloped in mist or opened up by high breezes. I was more often hot by virtue of exertion, than chilled by the weather around me. It didn't bother me. I got to hang out with the dragons. Though they sometimes obscured the peaks around me, they provided me a phantasmal perspective all their own.