In
The Moment Nature Photography
Vignettes
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Vignettes
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Cast Away By Timothy J. Sullivan First
printed in the Long Trail News Winter 2001 issue
Huddling behind rocks I watch the gray mist swirl about pushed and pulled by the fickle wind. The wind hums through rocks and dances through bigelows sedge sounding like a stiff plastic bag being crumpled and waved about. I remember with a smile the first time I heard that sound several years ago. Searching in vain for the non existent trash hidden somewhere amongst the rocks. Voices rouse me from my contemplation as they slowly make themselves heard over the wind. Out of the gray wall a couple appears ghostlike at first then taking on more solid form as they climb onto the rock above me. "Welcome to the clouds" I say in a pleasant voice. "Is this the top?" the man replies in surprise. "Yup, the top of Vermont anyway." "So much for the views. The forecast said it was going to clear this morning," he says. "The mountain is always a little slow at letting go of the clouds. Besides, the plants really need all the moisture they can get. This has been an extremely dry year so far." "Figures we would pick one of the few cloudy days," he says with a smile to his partner. "You have to stay up here all day? Aren’t you freezing?" The woman chimes in as a gust of wind ruffles her windbreaker. "It is not as bad down here out of the wind and I am wearing a lot of layers. Usually the only thing that chases me down is thunder and lightning, but if I get too cold I will go down the trail a little ways and do some trail work to warm myself up. But the Green Mountain Club actually pays me to stay up here and keep an eye on the rare alpine plants. Even on days like today there are enough folks up here to harm them if everyone is not careful enough to stay on the rocks. It only takes a few footsteps in the same place to kill the plants and allow the soil to erode away like that gravelly patch right behind you." "So when do you think it will clear?" the gentleman asks while looking at the nearby sedge and bilberry. "Hard to say. Could be a few minutes or a few hours. Either way it is a beautiful view to me with or without the clouds." "Yes it is. Well we should get going honey. Is the Profanity Trail just up ahead?" "Yup, just keep following the LT South till you get to a boardwalk and you will see the sign on your left," I say, pointing the way. "Goodbye. Have a good day." They say in unison. "Thanks,
I always do up here. Have fun." I reply as they disappear back into the
mist. I am suddenly alone again in a world whose not so distant horizons expand and contract with the shifting breeze. Soon a pair of birds appear, pecking about the rocks. Soft brownish feathers on back and sides and the flash of white on the outside of their tails as they fly back into the mist reveals their identity as immature juncos. They soon return accompanied by a red squirrel. All three keeping me entertained, poking over the rocks and through the sedge in search of food scraps dropped during the recent busy weekend. Lost somewhere between the quiet watching of my feathered and furry neighbors and the world of inner contemplation I fail to notice the change in the clouds. Almost before I realize it I am in the open sun, and just as quickly back in a world of gray as the wind drags another cloud over the summit. This is no normal lifting and breaking of clouds. Soon I find myself beneath a blue sky with the sun beating down, thawing away the chill of the day. My neighbors depart for the nearby shelter of stunted fir trees as I stand and find myself looking out upon a sea of clouds. A wind tossed and rippled sea with large waves cresting over areas where other mountains lie submerged beneath their brilliantly white and billowing surface. The solitude of my remote island lasts for some time. Eventually, my belly grumbles reminding me that my watch has ended and dinner time is fast approaching. I shoulder my pack twirling around for one last view of the endless sea before stepping down into the swirling waves.
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All text and images copyright ©
1994- 2007 Timothy J. Sullivan (unless
otherwise noted)
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