The last time I went to Mammoth Mountain, I was probably 13. 11 years later, when an invitation arose to return, I jumped in the car with eager delight. The mountain welcomed me with a beautiful, fresh, white blanket and warm smile. A brief, but welcomed journey to engage my estranged senses all over again.
The air was quiet while the trees dropped snow on my head. The slow, steady silence pierced my ears with pleasure. Monochromatic stillness flowed through to my fingertips. As I compared the sights with my memories, I was humbled with gratitude for the many journeys I've been able to experience. With my family, friends, strangers, Mother Nature and myself. It's so easy to lose appreciation for the endless moments that make up our life. We must not forget the true nature to our beings.
On the way home, I met a kind man named Ken. We chatted for a bit and he told me about his wolfdogs that he raises. 10 of them. I watched his eyes gleam as he spoke of these beauties with genuine love. Ken encouraged me to go down the street to his house to meet them.