I spent this past weekend recovering from our Yosemite weekend the weekend before. In all honesty, catching up on laundry, reorganizing my spices in time for the holiday season, putting away the camping gear, and plugging on a few projects that I have going on, was productive in its own way, but it did not leave me speechless. There’s something about Yosemite and other areas in the high country, that just take my breath away and leave me wanting more.
They inspire me to be a weekend warrior of sorts. One the sneaks into national parks, in the wee hours of the morning during a government shut down, just to hear the nothingness, or the almost nothingness. One that wonders if, in a past life, they might have been a pioneer, or Native America, that traveled into that valley and fell in love. One that goes to bed shortly after the sun disappears behind the Sierras and the temperatures plummet. One that gets up before the sun just to watch it hit the surrounding granite peaks that tower over you, even if you are at nearly 12,000 feet already. One that laughs at the girls who embrace snow as one of the greatest joys on the planet and then proceed to dig, roll, and eat it in record time. One that finds inspiration and perspective in our wild places. One that leaves and wonders what they can do to protect places like this from mankind. One that is reminded, again, that beauty and wonder is all around us. One that could wander, and wander, and wander. One that could sit next Abby, the little Buddha in training, while Lexi pursues her innate instincts to search out anything and everything and eat it, and take in this view for hours and hours.
This will never get old.