Today was my first day back at work after a week spent above 11,000'. Besides there being way too much oxygen now that I am back at 300' elevation, the contrast in how life is spent is just as overwhelming. Finding and using the plumbing in the house immediately after getting out of bed was a welcome change from the complexities of even the simplest tasks on the trail, but the relentless alarm clock that triggered the first event of the day was most unwelcome. On the trail, we got up when light entered the tent, and most of us were eager to go view the sunrise. The one in our crew who used the week on the trail as his time to not have to get up before the sun was easily coaxed out by an actual cup of good coffee brought to the tent. Having our own certified Starbucks barista running the trail kitchen definitely has its "perks", so to speak.

On the trail, we made a point of not "being on a schedule." This is a ruse we play on ourselves because we really do have to make camp before dark, or be off the trail by a given day and even time of day, but we enjoy believing we aren't on a schedule and can spend each day as we choose. After we have breakfast (that pre-cooked bacon that doesn't require refrigeration is amazing when served hot and crispy) we talk about choices for how to spend the day, whether we are going to move camp further up the trail, and where we will camp tonight if we do move. To further the illusion of having no schedule to keep, on Monday (first morning on the trail) we decided we would not move camp again from this first trail camp, but we would keep exploring the myriad of cross trails nearby until Thursday and hike out then, leaving all day to get out of the wilderness and Friday to return to civilization. We were back in camp each afternoon in time to take a nap or have "quiet time" on the mountainside, or read before fire/water chores and starting dinner. We definitely were not rushed.

The contrast in the pace couldn't have been more clear than this morning when I sat at my desk, and as I woke up my notebook (which I had intentionally not taken with me), saw voicemail waiting, retrieved it, and before I could get into last week's email the phone rang. Then in the emails there was the notice about a meeting at 8:30 this morning that I needed to be at. Give me a break. I want to go back to the wilderness. I walk to talk with a very few close friends about things that matter in life. I want time to sort out what I want to do today. I want to hand my tent-mate a cup of coffee after I come back from watching the sunrise. I want to sit quietly on the side of the mountain and listen for the still quiet voice to confirm that life is good and that there is purpose in everything and a place for me in the expanse that is the universe. I want to walk away from the campfire to get a better view of the milky way, see four falling stars in one night, see who can spot a satellite first, and listen to Brian make his joke about candy bars in the sky (it is so much better than the casper joke he used to tell during star-gazing). But I am here. And I won't likely be back in the woods until next summer because the hiking season is so short up there. So I close my eyes. I take a deep slow breath. And I go see my friend who "called" this meeting I should be at, and the day takes off. Yet somehow, I am not here. Part of me is on skyline trail walking through the forest that burned out in the viveash fire of 2002 but is somehow teeming with new life now. Part of me is looking for a spring where we can get water on the ridge. Part of me is exploring for new campsites we will use on yet another trip to the woods. 

And the weather improved each day as the week went on. The hurricane that came across New Mexico from the Pacific and across Mexico brought us rain, and some interesting nights early in the week, but we had blue skies and good stars by mid-week. We were in the Pecos Wilderness in the Sante Fe National Forest in northeast New Mexico, which has had an amazingly wet year resulting in an extended growing season. When I took students hiking in June we encountered snow blocking some of the high-country trails. That snow was from the heavy winter snows which had not finished melting. The streams were gushing and the valleys were green then. Even the alpine tundra above 11,000' was still green this week, and it seemed the elk were a little behind their usual calendar in gathering the herd to the high country. It seems that their schedule is less ruled by my calendar than by their food sources which seem to be still abundant. And we didn't have frost any night this trip. That could be a result of starting at 11,400' trail head instead of in a valley where cold air pools at night. And it could be the wilderness is on its own schedule this year.   Hold my calls, will you?