It was just past noon when the storm rolled in and I, sauntering atop the ridge, ignored the wind whipping and the rain falling harder. The sky in front of me was still clear blue, spotted with white puffy clouds – the cows of the heavenly pastures.
Behind me, a blur of gray and in my ears, the vibration of thunder. At 12,000 feet I was a lightning rod, the only tree in sight. Not like this, I thought, and stopped in my tracks.
The Continental Divide is where water from the sky separates on earth: east or west; and in this moment, a decision: forward into the sun or back into the rain. With every step forward, my mind reeled off fears that second-guessed sure footing, enough to turn me around and race the storm back to my car – one mile away, thunder clatter rooting me on.
And then, just when I can see the trailhead, I feel the absolute warmth of the sun on my shoulder. It was poignant in its touch; a gentle power that slowed my run to a walk, my walk to a standstill. When I looked back, my body turned. Right above me, the sun divided a gray | blue sky, smiling. I would’ve been here the whole time if you kept moving forward.
A lesson from Loveland.
Inspired Scribble 