All Wild Things

At the canyon’s rim, the lion pauses beside a stream rimmed with spring ice, lowering its great head to drink from waters born of storm and stone. It is early May, following generous mountain snow that laid eighteen inches across this valley. A final white blessing upon the awakening earth. From the shadowed timber rose the clear and silvered voice of the Townsend's Solitaire, soon joined by a chorus of returning birds whose songs spilled through the cold morning air like sunlight through pine boughs.

Mountain lion pauses for a drink before continuing down a rock walled canyon.

And here, as if summoned by the storm itself, the mountain lion appeared, silent and self-possessed, placing a sharp and perfect exclamation upon the wildness of this remote sanctuary. Far from pavement, far from the machinery and clamor of human reach, the lion moves in rhythm with Nature’s ancient metronome, a cadence measured by snowfall, birdsong, hunger, and thaw, a rhythm understood by all truly wild things.

Moisture is the sacred currency of these high wildlands, the giver of green meadows, flowing creeks, and stirring life. Since the dry days of last July, few events have carried such promise. Every branch, every blade of grass, every living creature seemed to lean gratefully into the gift of water.