Anne Cooper studio notes

For years I have posted images from my morning walk on this blog. Below the photos is an essay I wrote about this mountain walk.

May You Walk in Beauty *

My day starts early. At a time that most people call night. Usually by 2AM I’m awake and up between 230-3. I live in a different part of the day than most.

I do a lot in these early hours and by around 5AM I am ready to head out to the mountain, always well before sunrise. That’s when the world is in that magical place between dreaming and light.

Bear Canyon trail leads from the parking lot to the Bear Canyon lookout a couple of miles up the canyon. We (just my dog Finn and I, since we lost Sophie) travel the auxiliary trail that hugs the hills to the south of the canyon. It’s narrow, rocky with drop offs on the downhill side. I call it the Ridge trail, not its official name.

If the winds are screaming, like they were this morning, the hills, and the mountain itself offer a fine screen once we manage to cross the open expanse of the canyon floor. With the southeast wind bearing down full scream we just bend into it, like you see people on TV trying to get around in a hurricane. I’ve been in hurricanes and these winds are but breezes compared. Still, this morning they were stiff enough to knock over the porta potty in the parking lot. Not for everyone. In fact, it was just me and Finn. No one else in the canyon today. ON a busy morning, I might see the light of two or three others - like fireflies among the hills.

Our walk takes us high up the canyon until the city is a sparkly map of lights deep below to the west of us. If it’s a full moon morning I get to watch it set over our serene western horizon line. Its huge and red - a gift to observe.

On a lucky morning we’ll hear the pair of great horned owls that make this canyon their home. The call comes every 10 seconds. I’ve timed it. On occasion I’ll see their dark shape outlined against the starlit sky on a tree top or soaring overhead. In the spring the canyon is full of song birds feeling the pull of their destiny to reproduce with bright music for us. The trashers melodic tunes and the jays scolding screeches. All good.

Walking, as I do, four mornings a week year round, I can mark the passage of time by the slow, but steady changes on our desert mountain. And in the sky. Mid-winter the walk is dark most of way. I’ll not turn off my light until I’m close to the parking lot on my return. In the summer first light is happening when I begin the walk. The sky and its constellations change with the seasons. Cassiopeia above the Crest of the mountain or watching the Big dipper change its location along with Orion in the fall. Venus offers herself to us in early morning at the eastern horizon. Sometimes accompanying a waning crescent moon. Now that’s a sight! Ambient City lights prevent seeing the Milky Way but none the less I have open sky celestial views year around.

Mid-winter all’s dark and dormant and cold. We’ve been on the mountain side in single digit temperatures with winds howling. Maybe if we’ve had snow the canyon has an eerie glow. The paths can become icy and without the micro spikes on my hiking shoes I’d have to give up my walk for the season.

An electrical storm in the area is about the only danger that keeps me off the trail.

Summer, I like to be there before sunup as there are rattlers in these hills and the cooler and darker the morning the less likely we are to encounter one. I’m not concerned for myself; in fact I feel it a privilege to see a snake. Dogs on the other hand do not know a thing about poisonous snakes.

The hills are full of life. Last winter I strapped my light on my hat rather than snapped onto the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt. I happened to glance down into the canyon from my elevated place on the ridge trail. It was startling to see all the eyes focused on us reflecting my light. I know there’re creatures there in that canyon, some prey (deer, rabbits) and some predators (coyotes, bobcats, mountain lions – I’ve seen them all) and I know they know we’re there, but I’d rather not have such proof in the moment that we’re being monitored. So back it went on to my waist.

A mountain lion crossed our path a couple of years ago. What a thrill that was! It was raining lightly on a warm summer morning when she flew past setting off Finn’s predator instinct. He took chase until I told him he’d be wise to think again about doing that.

Coyotes are often out there yipping and barking and howling. They have an eerie way about them, almost invisible in their early morning gray coat. Once we got too close to a coyote den and the guard guy chased us off. The dogs (Sophie was with us then) stuck close when that large male coyote followed us, yipping, until we were far enough away. We pay attention and know when we’re not welcome. Contrary to what some may think we’re not stupid. Crazy maybe but not stupid.

Almost every walk we see the resident herd of Mule deer. A younger Finn would chase them but as he’s aged, he just enjoys watching them scatter as we pass.

In the spring the mock orange perfumes the canyon with the intoxicating fragrance from its delicate four petal white flowers. Same thing in late summer - the brickle bush blooms with an almost invisible flower that broadcasts its sweetness for our pleasure. In the meantime, we have an enormous array of wildflowers, from poppies to penstemons, to primroses.

Right now (mid-May), the prickly pear cactus is just starting its bloom. In the winter it collapses into a puddle of desiccated napoles and miraculously in the warmth of spring the pads flesh out and become turgid and juicy again. Making for a mysterious contrast to the multi petaled lemon yellow flowers which are dry and thin and translucent as tissue paper. And the chollo cactus blooms later in the summer with its dayglow magenta flowers. Another startling sight from the mountain show.

But almost always you must look closely to see. This is a desert after all, and the beauty is often understated and shy. Seeing is a learned skill on our mountain.

I must pay close attention to the trail too, lots of tripping hazards…the rocks I climb over, the dropped chollo branches across the trail, the scree to negotiate going downhill. One careless step…

Being 78 years old I realize that my last day on the mountain is in sight. Which makes every day there a gift to be treasured.

I have weighed the dangers and the benefits, and I decided it’s worth the risk. A friend I was walking with for a while had an almost phobic fear of the mountain lions out there and another hiking buddy of hers shrugged her fear off and said not to worry about Mountain lions, they were very efficient killers.

What will I see today? Will it be fiery red clouds whipped about dramatically by the wind in new day’s light? Or will it be a more subtle - a play of light and shadow on a meadow of grasses offering a silver shimmer that will shift as quickly as it manifested or even a pinon jay crossing my path in a swath of cobalt blue that stops me in my tracks, like when you read a fine sentence in a book that makes you stop and take a breath before continuing. It’s all so ephemeral and I am grateful when I’m present enough to witness. And that delight happens whether anyone is there to witness it or not.

Beauty is…

And Beauty is my religion.

Crazy or not it’s my passion being out there in the wilds of the early morning. And like Annie Dillard “I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing.”

*Navajo Prayer