Awakened to Nature
I climbed down the ladder from the sleeping-loft and went to the kitchen, which was part of one great room. There were no walls to divide any particular area except for the privy, and that only had a curtain for a door. I never did get around to finishing it off. I took hold of the coffee pot and dumped out yesterday's stale black over-cooked goo and pumped the handle to the faucet until cold, clear water flowed out rinsing it. I refilled it, scooped in an ungodly amount of fresh grounds. The aroma enlivened me. I placed the coffee pot on the gas stove and struck a stick match on its worn enamel turning the knob till gas hissed out. I waved the dwindling flame near the burner and whoosh; fire flared wildly. I adjusted it down and quickly retreated to the front porch to catch the sun rising over the lake up through the mountains. It is a sight I refuse to miss. I do not take this place for granted; ever
The aroma of coffee wafted out the door, I knew it was ready and went in and poured a cup. I came back out to the porch and sat in a cherished old Adirondack chair that creaked with every movement. I put my feet up on the railing. I sipped, and watched, and listened. I read no morning paper, nor listen to the news. Anything connected to the outside world I had long ago banished. Passing the time here is only by nature; the call of a loon, a fish breaking through the water, and the breeze whispering through tall pines. A blue Heron gliding low over the tarn landing in rushes catches my eye. I am in awe.
The tranquility had been interrupted by the loud rumbling of an engine. An old pickup truck appeared as it ambled along the causeway that crossed the lake. It sounded as though the muffler had a hole in it. From the look of the man driving, I don't think repairs were high on his to-do list. Two fishing rods hung over the rusty tailgate bobbing up and down as if excited to be headed to a favorite fishing spot. And, as the truck disappeared into the distance, so too the sound of its errant muffler faded. I don't know why but I quite liked the noise it made. It seemed to be a sound I only heard in those mountains.
At night, it is more mysterious. The sounds come from the darkness of which I am unsure. And, the only light for radiance is from the stars above and from the yellow glow of the campfire I had built. I cannot see the mountains in all their glory, but only their dark silhouette, and I am forlorn, for the morning is far off. The crackling of burning dry wood soothes me. Crickets and frogs say goodnight and a bobcat calls from a distant hill; a coyote joins in reminding me that I am not alone.
I love this place, not for all its beauty or its scent of pine and moss. But, for the things, I cannot hear back in the chaos of urban life. When I am away from here I am lonely, and I want to come back; for I have this need to listen to the sound of mountains.