Blue Skies and Dirt Trails

Posted on March 19, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography, Scenic, Writing

What a delight, when winter temperatures soar into the 60s and 70s under blue skies and warm sun! Waking up to 10 degree temperatures and gentle snowfall this morning, it is hard to believe that we enjoyed a summery hike last Saturday. Like many other residents of the Black Hills, Roy, Jessie and I spent the afternoon soaking up the springtime weather beneath Harney Peak. There was still ice on Sylvan Lake and snow in the shadowed places, but there wasn’t a hint of chill in the air.

All around Harney Peak, there is a web of trails wending through the Black Elk Wilderness and Custer State Park, beautiful scenic spurs with gorgeous, soaring vistas and haunting hollows. We have all hiked Harney Peak a number of times, but some of the spurs were new to us, or at least new to me. Trail #9 is the most common way to reach the Peak, but Trail #4 is a little more rugged, less up-kept, and affords lovely views of the towering Cathedral Spires, as well as a lively scramble to the top of Little Devil’s Tower.

For some of the little climb to Little Devil’s Tower, it was cumbersome having my camera bag slung over my shoulder, but worth it for the views at the top! The Harney Peak fire lookout looked doll-sized, and the dozens of people in and around the fire tower weren’t even visible. We could see Custer, like a map, spread out in the southwest, and we could see Rapid City to the northeast, sprawling and minuscule, with the Badlands barely visible in the distant haze. The hills dropped away, an alluring blue, fading and dimming as the distance grew.

On the Cathedral Spires trail, we could see mountain goats sunning on the tops of rocks, far enough away that it just about maxed out my zoom lens. Such awkward looking creatures, yet so graceful and sure-footed! The first time I hiked Trail #4, we saw some up-close goats. It would have been fun to see a few up-close on the trail, but there were enough hikers with their companionable canines, the goats probably were more comfortable high up and out of the way.

Such beautiful country to wander, and what clear, fresh air to breath deep of, to drink in, to soak up. Mica glittered dazzlingly in the trail dust, granite spires soared into the sky, pines grew precariously from any cleft of rock, and the aspens shimmered pale and silver in the warm sunshine, in a sea of golden grass.

Winter isn’t over in the Hills just yet. But almost. Spring is just around the corner.

Findings | Mule Deer Doe

Posted on March 18, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography, Wildlife

Now that the weather is beginning to feel the touch of springtime, I’m trying to fit in a walk before I head to work. Just a quick one, 20 minutes or so rambling about, and the light isn’t always great for photography. But this lovely little sight caught my eye a few mornings ago.

What a great way to start the day.

Pretty Kitty

Posted on March 6, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography

When I left for a walk yesterday morning, I looked back towards the corral and saw a little black speck over by the sheds. It was Kashka, watching the morning. I walked back – that cat just tugs at my heartstrings – and called her over to me. She came partway, but made me come the rest. For probably ten minutes, I just sat there and watched her, as she watched the morning go by, prowling for little critters in the long grass, stepping daintily, silently, and swiftly, occasionally asking for affection.

What a lovely little creature. God is so good to have given us such delights in something so simple yet precious.

Straying from the Beaten Trail

Posted on March 6, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography, Scenic, Wildlife, Writing

One can cover a lot of beautiful ground by following a well-worn trail, a path countless feet have beaten down, smoothed and deepened. But there is sometimes something in my heart not quite satisfied with simply following a trail – being bound by miles or hours, not knowing what is over this hill, or what the view looks like from the ridge above. There is something to not following a trail, giving oneself permission to stray to the side, to discovered unseen vistas, or subtle deer trails. There is something delightful about taking the long way around, of creating detours and following one’s sense of curiosity, and allowing oneself to revel in the beauty of the outdoors.

Sometimes that giving in to curiosity and delight comes with simply changing one’s vantage point. Walking along a ravine floor is a completely different view than walking along the rim. The enchantment of rising granite steps, moss covered, and slanting shadows and cool, green lichen contrasts with the beauty of the open sky, the rolling hills, quivering rabbitbrush, and the treelines. A ravine followed from top to bottom, with 5-foot ledges to scramble, looks wholly different when followed from bottom to top. The 5-foot ledges become a different sort of obstacle, when scrambling up instead of down.

A trail taken in the morning, when the air is cool and warming, when frost and dew shimmer in the grass, when the trees are singing with early birds, when the air in the sheltered valleys is damp and cool and rich, yet warm and fragrant on the sunlit hillsides above – it is entirely other than walking the trail in the afternoon or evening, when the birds have quieted, when the dew of morning has been replaced by the frost of evening, when quiet and hush have settled.

In the morning hours, the chickadees and bluebirds were talking to themselves and flitting from branch to shrub to rock. The bluebirds were like little pieces of sky, so bright and blue. And the chickadees, feisty little masked things, were darting and diving in a ravine, drinking ice melt from a little green pool. I clambered up on the ledge and tried quietly to take out my camera. They watched me curiously or indignantly, I wasn’t entirely sure which, and let me take their pictures before disappearing, their little hoarse, laughing calls disappearing with them.

Taking the time to chase down sunbeams on birchbark. Chatting with a sassy squirrel. Watching migrating flocks of geese. Wondering at ancient trees, wizened and hunchbacked. Slipping and sliding down slopes covered in pine needles and loose rocks, crawling up ledges, ducking under deadfall, plunging into the shadow of the trees, where light filters through the deep green needles and glows and flickers on the bark, the earth, and snow white pieces of quartz – They say to take the path of least resistance. But sometimes the path of more resistance is a lot more rewarding. Giving in to the delight of curiosity, straying from the beaten trail, lingering to watch and listen and breathe deeply of the air. Halted by awe. Driven by a question: What’s next?

The Mystery of Old Trees

Posted on March 3, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography, Scenic, Writing

“It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanates from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.” ~Robert Louis Stevenson

Thunder purred contentedly in the distance from a sky lowering and dark. After a brief, pearly March shower, the damp, rain-washed world was a landscape changed and new and fragrant. The browns were richer, the greens were more alive, the grey of the sky was lowering above the horizon. Scattered tufts of lichen, usually dry and tough, were soft as ferns and green like gems. The rust-colored earth crumbled under our feet, soft and damp. Garnets in the creekbed were redder and glassier, the dust of the summer washed away.

There is a mystery in the trees, a story untold, a winding path still unexplored. There is beauty, yes, but it must be the sense of wild and untamed mystery that calls us back. There is the allure of constant change, as the shadows shift and deepen, as cool breeze dances with warm, as the voice of the woods quiets then sings then quiets again.

The woods are rich with the fragrance of damp earth and musky leaves, and are wealthy with the myriad hidden things, those subtle treasures hidden in the undergrowth, or tucked beneath a fallen limb, or nestled in the knee-high grasses. There is the misty pink of birch bark, or the rainbow hidden in the heart of a snowy crystal. There are the brightly glowing hulls of autumn berries, still clinging to their trees, opened gaily like flowers in the dead of winter.

Another brief rainshower blustered up while we were walking Battle Creek, a wall of red rock, pocketed with hollowed-out places, towering beside us. The rain came down like beads of glass, and the sun broke through the clouds, making the rocks glow. I don’t think I’d weary of these trails if I hiked the same ones for 100 years. There is always something I never saw before, air I never breathed before, perfumes I never smelt before. And each time there is a renewing. The sort of renewing that comes from peering closely at little things of beauty. The sort of renewing that comes from listening to the silence. The sort of renewing that comes from welcoming the dirt and the mud. The sort of renewing that comes from taking the time to wonder. The sort of renewing that comes from breathing deep of the clean, moist air.