The Iranian, the climber and the wildflower photographer
The snowdrifts rose steeply from the trail,
muddy tracks barely visible among scattered pine needles.
Early in the morning, the snow was icy, treacherous,
and no one was around, only a few birds calling in the distance.
The Iranian appeared from around the bend, carrying a
walking stick, two prongs stabbing the snow at each step.
He passed the stick to me and continued down the trail,
brightening the day, the snowdrifts seemed less daunting.
A young man dashed past me, crampons and ice axe in hand.
Mike and I lumbered towards each other, three
mysterious cylinders and a large box suspended from
his body, the wildflower photographer.
We were four now out here, in the shadow of Arapahoe Peak,
cradled in the valleys formed by ancient glaciers.
The Iranian, the climber, the wildflower photographer and me.
The snowdrifts rose steeply from the trail,
muddy tracks barely visible among scattered pine needles.
Early in the morning, the snow was icy, treacherous,
and no one was around, only a few birds calling in the distance.
The Iranian appeared from around the bend, carrying a
walking stick, two prongs stabbing the snow at each step.
He passed the stick to me and continued down the trail,
brightening the day, the snowdrifts seemed less daunting.
A young man dashed past me, crampons and ice axe in hand.
Mike and I lumbered towards each other, three
mysterious cylinders and a large box suspended from
his body, the wildflower photographer.
We were four now out here, in the shadow of Arapahoe Peak,
cradled in the valleys formed by ancient glaciers.
The Iranian, the climber, the wildflower photographer and me.
.
Photo courtesy of Mike, the wildflower photographer. You can find his other photos at http://www.hikinmike.com/.
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