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Flying over the snow-capped Rockies magnifies the glories of God’s creation. The majesty of that massive collection of peaks
and valleys is overwhelming. I was flying to southern California from Chicago.
As we flew over the Rockies, I felt like we were frozen in time. The terrain
below traded between endless brown masses and gentle white blankets. The
contrasts drew even more attention to the incredible size of the mountainous
range. Occasional willowy puffs of white gave license to the imagination that conjured
up images of old smoke signals or smoldering volcanoes. Science would probably
explain the phenomenon as clashing temperature zones causing the moisture in
the air to be more steam-like. But, that explanation is for the scientist. For
me, I prefer the images of roaming buffaloes and nestled tribes holding
conversations about the next hunt.
“The buffalo are close,” one tribe has signaled.
“How soon before the hunt begins,” replies the other.
“Soon, very soon,” responds the first.
All this as the stately mountain goat climbs steadfastly among the step slops searching for thawing streams and the promise of spring.
Suddenly, there is a pass below between the mountains. What left those long, strange tracks?
Like the peaks of my mother’s whipped egg whites, the mountain peaks stand defiantly against the cloudless sky before giving way to a patchwork quilt spread smoothing over the terrain.
I shall remember to look down again.