Taos, New Mexico

We woke up early, but light had already leaked through the leaves and spread its pretty patina over the thin nylon of our tent roof.  Oscar sat upright at our feet, silently pleading his case.  We let him out, listening as he ran a tight circle around our camp.  His morning routine requires a stiff regimen of sniffing and peeing on most vertical surfaces.

Once dressed and fed, we hopped in the car and headed up.  

Our little red Hyundai isn't built for mountain travel, but she's done surprising well, under the circumstances.  Since Sunday, she's traversed the Cascades, the Steens, Zion, and the Grand Canyon.  Right now, we're headed up the southern tip of the Rockies, and this is the first time I've been worried.  Twenty miles from Taos, New Mexico, Ski Village is perched on precariously steep gravel roads.  Our little red Hyundai takes on another switchback.

We've heard that the hike up Mount Wheeler is an easy six mile jaunt; however, we don't have a map.  We stopped at what appeared to be a parking lot, but could just as easily have been an open field of snow.  We hiked up what appeared to be a trail, but could just as easily have been a divot in the snow.  After a few miles, the spotty trail leads us to an alpine lake in a cirque below sister mountains.  We head up.

After forty-five minutes of snow-covered scree, I begin to worry.  I can go up, but I'm worried about the climb back down.  I'm worried Oscar will come barreling down this mountain side ala the baby polar bear in the Coca Cola commercial.  He's not nearly fluffy enough for this.  

But anyone who's ever climbed a mountain - or at least climbed a mountain with us knows that the peak provides an undeniable allure.  Each false summit urges you fifteen minutes forward, and once you've discovered its pretense, you're fifteen minutes further - and closer.

Above the tree line, I watch for marmots.  Their high-pitched squeals set off a game of call and response, and pretty soon the whole mountainside is alive with rodent song and merriment.

Near the top, we follow a path of mountain goat dung and lichen that may or may not be a trail; nevertheless, our climb ends just over the next ridge.  The ground is littered with tottering cairns, and a USGS plaque hails our arrival.

From the top of Mount Wheeler, I can see the snow capped line of the Rocky Mountains.  Far below us, the piedmont rolls out into the open desert, and above us, the blue sky arcs and fades into the horizon.

I’m in a snow globe.  It’s June, and I’ve got white powder at my feet.  The panorama bows at the edges of my vision, and I have this sense that if I’m shaken, all the pieces will fall back in place.  In fact, I want it.  Shake me.  Turn my world upside down.  Watch me make it right again.