by Ernest Jones

“Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof” (Psalm 46:2, 3).

The morning sun shone bright through the crystal-clear atmosphere as I walked up the lonely gravel road. Large tamarack, Douglas fir, and ponderosa pine stood like sentinels guarding the road. The stream rolling beside the road leaped as it dashed over large boulders strewn in its path, oblivious to the fact that soon it would be buried under a heavy layer of ice and snow. 

Rounding a corner, I spotted a deer. Although the young buck moved into the brush as I approached, it returned to the road and began to follow me. Stopping, I turned to look at it. In the growing sunlight its beautiful reddish brown coat shimmered. It did not seem to have any fear of me but acted like it wanted my company.

I continued walking when the buck stopped to drink deeply from the cold water and to chew on a few thimbleberry leaves. Suddenly, I was jolted to alert by the sound of flying gravel right behind me. Turning again, I saw the young buck now standing less than a dozen feet from me, swirls of dust still rising from its sudden stop. I stifled an urge to reach out, to try and pet it. The beautiful two-point buck stared at me with those large sparkling eyes. I noted its large ears turned slightly forward as I softly spoke. Then, after a couple of minutes, as if it was on an important errand, the buck slipped quietly into the bush and was gone. With renewed energy and a light heart I continued my hike.

Later I encountered an old porcupine waddling across the road. The road, just an old logging track, snaked up the valley as it followed the stream. Coming to a fork in the deeply rutted road, I left the creek behind and started up a steep climb. I listened to the wind as it brushed through the trees, and heard ravens calling to each other, but otherwise silence reigned. Other than the narrow seldom-used road, there was no sign that humans had ever been here. No traffic noise, no radios, just a passing jet flying so high that its noise failed to reach me.\

“Ah,” I whispered as I rounded a bend and stopped where I had a panoramic view of the rugged terrain. To my left, I looked down through a narrow ravine to a valley far below.  In the valley was a patchwork quilt of green pastures, harvested grain fields, and brown fields that had been plowed. There were a couple of houses and an old weathered barn, its once-red siding faded by years of harsh weather.

But what I had really come to see was to my right: one hill after another—each decked out in splashes of glorious color. I stood just drinking in the view, knowing that one day this would be gone. I was determined to have a picture in my mind that could never be blotted out. I continued to behold red, orange, yellow and green covering the hillsides. The tamarack—otherwise known as western larch—were really showing off, dressed in brilliant gold and orange, hovering between summer and winter. Scattered between the bright trees were the green ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. Lower in the valley stood yellow birch, crimson maple, and green cedar trees.

I drank in the beauty—from the valley below to the azure blue sky over head.  Soon those beautiful tamarack trees would be stripped naked while winter blasted them with bitter cold, ice, and snow. But another spring would once again bring them to life. I thought: Could there be any place more beautiful?

During that time in my life I had been passing through troubled waters. The doctor had said my vision would continue to fade. But with this spectacular autumn hike my spirit was renewed and refreshed. I returned home knowing I would always remember this scene. Maybe the doctor was right. But no one could take this picture away from me—not even fading eyesight. Today I still have that hike with me, vivid and clear as the deep blue sky and the sparkling water of the stream.