Near Picketpost Mountain – 2/28
Rain woke me up and I packed quickly, shoving gear into my pack, trying to hide things in plastic bags.
The trail dropped from my perch of a camp, rushing down the side of a mountain over a thousand feet into the valley below. I trudged down in my rain jacket, water dripping off me and seeping into my shoes.
From there it was a long winding path toward Picketpost Mountain under a grey sky that felt like a ceiling ready to collapse.
I crossed underneath the highway and pressed on as cars rattled back and forth in the distance. Picketpost rose in front of me, a fortress of red walls like a giant fist of rock fifteen hundred feet above the desert floor. The sun sank low as I willed myself forward around the tower’s base, worn out from the rain, the miles, the day.
Then the light broke through underneath the ceiling of clouds. The sun’s last rays of orange set the fortress of rock on fire. The walls lit up, bright against the grey sky and shadows falling across the desert floor.
I stared in awe.
Then the moment was gone. The last light fell below the horizon. The grey ceiling sunk low. But sometimes a single moment is everything you need from a day.