It’s quiet.
It’s quiet like it must have been hundreds of years ago, before the trains, automobiles, and airplanes.
Just the sounds of nature – birds, insects, the sound of wind through the grasses.
The trail winds up from the North Thompson River, past houses scattered along the hillside. It’s noisy at the beginning, but the trail crests a ridge and all is quiet.
At the lake, wind forces ripples on the water’s surface, a kaleidoscope of colours, beams of sunlight flashing off the little wavelets like fireflies in the night. Small white butterflies dance in the wind among the patches of blue chicory. Kamikaze grasshoppers leap into the air, crashing into my chest.
Cows come to this lake. There is evidence of them everywhere. But today I have the lake to myself. Just the creatures of Mother Nature and I, open fields, water, hills, and all of the universe above us.
Further along, the wildflowers change to sage and grasses. I sit cross-legged on the dry soil, take in the aroma of the sage, watch insects dart about. The air is dry and the sun envelops me. It smells like the desert.
Eventually, slowly, I make my way back to the descending slope, where the sounds of human industry pierce my solitude. Where the trail ends, I grab my journal and write these words.