At this point, this forest feels like home. Behind me I see the hundreds of hours, the late nights and early mornings, the view from treetops and the thick understory, leaning back on logs and trunks and backpacks while waiting for time to pass. I see myself cussing at stinging nettle and rosehips along the creek every now and then, and I can feel my heart dropping as I jump a moose from the brush and a black bear from the meadow. I see the owl’s eyes lock with a mule deer’s, and a raven sailing overhead, wings cutting audibly through the air. I can see the silence, it’s visible, and I hear it, every now and then broken by the song of a sparrow, the wind along the Bridgers, the call of an owl. I keep expecting a spring to roll around when suddenly these birds aren’t here, when the wind carries them elsewhere, on big and beautiful wings. When the forest no longer greets me for the late nights and early mornings, with the views from treetops and thick understory. When I no longer lean back on logs and trunks and that sturdy backpack to wait for time to pass. When there’s no stinging nettle nor rosehips to cuss at, nor moose nor black bear. When I don’t watch the owl lock eyes with the deer, when the silence isn’t broken by anything.
When a reason to experience this place with my own eyes and ears is no longer presented, I won’t feel myself complete. The joy this space has brought me is purely and simply unequivocal. It is timeless. This entire forest is timeless. I believe that in one volume or another, my boots with crash through thick brush for as long these legs allow them. My hope is that it will be here in the Bridger Mountains. While I’ve never once wanted to experience something forever, I’m tempted to wish for that here. I could be around these owls, and their big and beautiful wings, swimming through these trees, forever.
