It starts in the late afternoon. The warm chinook finds its way under the door and through the open window. It tickles the back of the neck and whispers for action. Go now. Drink it in. The call is heeded and the door shut on the inside world. At the foot of the mountain a warm wind blows from the east. There is nothing fierce about it. Just a gentle, dependable bringer of weather.
On the path rock and pine duff crunch under foot blending with the timorous pitch of chinook flowing through the mountain’s features: pine, scrub and rock. The internal hums of exertion join the soundscape. Heart beats rhythmically in the ears and breath comes heavy and fast as the path steepens. Hands are now needed to grip the rock and continue upward progress. The wind sneaks up behind with subtle murmurs of encouragement. Upon reaching the top of the path the land unfolds below. It is covered in a between light, a hint of coming storm for those who have seen it before. A warm, windy spring evening for those who have not.
Unencumbered on the summit of this foothill peak the ragged wind finishes what it started earlier in the afternoon. In its domain things are different. Wild and uncertain. There is a vague scent of pine and snow but, for now, the moment is filled with the warm chinook. Urged on by this restless air it is time to descend. Back down the steep rocky track. Faster and faster through the gusts. Animal like and nimble. Always on the jagged edge of control. Swiftly down back to the valley smelling the chinook and feeling the warm blasts on bare skin. Drink it in for tomorrow it snows.
/ / / Boulder, Colorado | 2017