The Bighorn Mountains are on my doorstep.
High in the Cloud Peak Wilderness -
Clear Creek begins its journey to the Mississippi.
I have no illusions, whatsoever.
I am truly blessed.
Clear Creek just isn't any creek.
It runs right through the middle of Buffalo, Wyoming.
To the east, it courses between red bluffs and waters ranches for fifty miles.
To the west, it emerges from the Bighorn Mountains through a spectacular canyon.
When you know a creek well, it becomes like family.
Like the creek you grew up with.
Maybe the one near your grandmother's house?
Such a creek is far more than a line on a map.
So I pitched my tent high in the mountains.
Right next to Clear Creek in Soldier Park.
I listened to its crashing waters all night.
I left early in the morning to hike the ten miles to Florence Pass.
Well, actually, I mountain biked the first mile and a half.
To the wilderness boundary - over rocks that varied in size from softballs to basketballs.
What makes the Bighorn Mountains so amazing are its meadows.
No other forest in the Rocky Mountain West has so many meadows.
Almost immediately I realize that I am not alone.
There are butterflies galore, flying along the trail.
The creek is also almost always company.
Crashing or murmuring according to its mood.
And requiring numerous crossings without a bridge.
But the need to stop helps me be more aware.
The sky is a dome of blue -
With just the tiniest wisp of cloud coming over the mountains.
Another crossing -
And a big log to walk on.
The canyon deepens as I walk further into the mountains.
A waterfall crashes from the snowfields on the cliff above.
And then I turn a bend and - -
There are wildflowers splashed along the way.
Even though it is the beginning of August it is still spring.
As I bend over to take a picture of more wildflowers - -
I see a bull moose grazing in the willows.
We are no more than 100 yards apart.
As I top the rise coming into Medicine Park -
I see a impressionist wash of colors - chartreuse and teal.
The hillsides are covered in color.
The chartreuse is actually a carpet of tiny buttercups.
And the teal is actually bushes of bluebells.
I go down to Clear Creek to refill my water.
Although I had planned on having my lunch at Florence Lake,
I cannot resist this meadow.
I stretch out on the ground
And look up.
When I start out after lunch -
I have to wade through waist-high wildflowers.
The trail continues to climb along the cascading creek.
Even in August there is still lupine in the high country.
The mountain walls grow more jagged.
And the last trees are little taller than saplings -
Although they may be fifty years old.
A snowy meadow precedes the rocky climb.
The land changes from lush to austere.
Rocks the size of houses have tumbled from the mountain walls.
Coming to rest wherever they chose.
The snowbanks of last winter persist through the summer.
Even covering the trail at times.
In the alpine there are only a few weeks between snowmelt and autumn.
How fleeting is their time.
Yet, the tilted strata of the mountains themselves -
Testify to eons of creation and transformation.
So tantalizing on a perfect summer's day.
After a record winter's snowfall,
Clear Creek still finds its way along the trailbed.
Bomber Peak rises over the highest meadows.
A plaque honors the aircrew who died here during World War II.
And, finally, Florence Lake at the top of the Bighorns.
I sit in the shade of a boulder and watch the wind ruffle the water.
Too soon, I turn around to return to Soldier Park.
I have learned that to return the same way is no hardship.
Like Monet's cathedral, it is a different world by different light.
And the path downhill seems to stretch into eternity.
I look down upon Medicine Park.
And look up at the forest and sky.
Twilight is rapidly closing in.
I look back across Long Meadow.
And get back just before dark -
To sleep soundly to the music of Clear Creek -
Having shared in its magic, yet again.