#emerycatt

Hikin!

The higher the bunz, the closer to space.

Valhalla Lake Poem 09.17.17. What do the trout, stocked generations ago at Valhalla, do when winter descends upon the lake? Trapped in subalpine oasis, do they rush to finish summer to do lists, lamenting the season that just began; meticulously clinging to the checking off of boxes as an attempt to justify the ticking of the clock? Or, like the baby at a campsite down the path, it is a slow, lulling to sleep; waking up in April not remembering how or when they fell into such a deep dream, or when or where they are in time or space now that they’ve awoken? Do they see signs; the once emerald green forest now spotting yellow, orange, red; pika frantic to dry grass with less time each day; hikers once mostly exposed now covered in puffy layers? Or does the clock, whose hands’ soft reminding tick, come to a hibernating stop, frozen in snow, only to pick up when the rivers begin to flow again, trout none the wiser that 6 months passed, completing the swish of a fin began so long ago? Or do they wait, pacing in the depths, counting down the days until the thick fog of their snow roof, now traversed by gliding skis and knocking snow shoes, is warmed back to water, to once again become a blue ripple-warped window to the terrestrial world? Do they watch me through the window like I watch them? Or are they just watching for mosquitos to tick down one, two, three times on the glassy morning surface, before they are breakfast?

Stay hydrated 💦

❄️ ⛺️

Preparing to descend into the clouds.

When you want to have a fall photo shoot but he camera shy. Annette Lake, 10.30.2017