Dirt underfoot parts like sand. Piles of dead branches bleach in the sun like bones. The old road is overrun by yellow flowers with thin, flat petals that drip away from the center. The hill begins with these flowers and the greenish-blue scrubs of sage. Then the trees begin--Spruce or Fir; but no pine. The hill above is alive with green trees, a forest lies ahead.
Aspens gather in groves with their smooth, birch-like bark and small lime-green leaves.
The road ends at a mass of dead trees and I begin my own trail. I zig-zag up the hill, passing fallen trees, some twisted like black licorice. The trees get larger and larger as I move higher; bark becomes thick, dark slabs. I keep going, passing skinny trees with gnarled, vine-like branches twined together like Medusa's hair flipped upside down.
Finally, when I think it's time to turn back before I get too lost, I see blue sky beyond the trees and know I've made it to the top. I can see the Sawtooths through the trees, those mountains remind me of castles drizzled in ice and snow, or if I am more playful, in powdered sugar. I want to climb them someday soon, and I know I will. After some exploration, I rest on a slithered log, breathing in the scents of green needles and warm earth; the temperature is in the 70s or 80s today, and very dry. I try to ignore the chunky flies buzzing incessantly around my head. The log I'm on is weak like paper--I could pull it apart in layers if I chose to, but then the ants would need to move their home.
The sky has been pure blue for three days now. There's not one cloud. I'm waiting for the next thunderstorm.
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