There’s a trail up in the snowy range that I call Waterfall Road. Karl and I like to ride our four-wheelers up to the end of the way, then sit for a moment or many, enjoying the view of Medicine Bow peak off in the distance and relishing life at the top, literally. Last week when we were there enjoying the moment, a small buck deer walked out into the clearing and checked us out before bounding off. It’s great at the top, but it’s even better (in my view) to make the descent back down the road slowly, looking for each gift this mountain has to offer. You see, the reason I’ve named this two-track path Waterfall Road is because along the three-mile entirety of this dirt and rock jeep trail there are probably a hundred springs and waterfalls. By July, you can be assured that the water doesn’t originate in a snowbank above, because at the road ends at nearly the crest, and it’s easy to see that the snow is melted and gone. The road meanders circuitously as it climbs along the northwest side of some unnamed mountain in the Snowy Range at somewhere near the 9,500 foot elevation mark. My guess is that deep beneath the surface of this behemoth is a huge, happy lake that can’t help but bubble out the top of the mountain in its own joy at existence.
We begin our trek down and very soon the surprises begin. Water appears straight from the dusty forest floor, beginning as a tiny percolation of sparkly moisture, dampening the rocks and dirt nearby and heralded with a patch of green moss. Humble and shy, these diminutive springs draw little attention to themselves while their small issues wander downhill to join with others, or else to sink back into the dusty ground at the base of a thirsty pine or a small stand of willow bushes. In other places, without warning, a large section of hillside is verdant with flowers and alive with the tinkling sound of a hundred little springs. Here, the water fairly dances out of the earth in jubilation and it’s impossible to miss the spongy ground and the quickly growing stream as individual rivulets join forces.
Clearly, this process – water bubbling up and joining forces to create laughing streams and brooks racing down the steep mountainside – repeats itself countless times, both near the road so that I can stop and watch in wonder and also above me in the space between the road and the sky. It’s clear as I continue to explore the mountain trail, as waterfalls of many sizes and exuberance show themselves at nearly every bend and wrinkle in the path. My soul laughs as I watch the water cavort along streambeds filled with shiny pebbles and polished boulders. Fallen tree branches add to the melee as a hundred different shades of green ferns and foliage and colonies of flowers line the route as if they were revelers enjoying a parade.
One waterfall winds through the trees higher than I can see. It trips over granite boulders and drops into deep pools, creating a deep resonant song that would make bassoons and oboes jealous. Only fifty feet later down the path, a smaller brook bounds across a fall of shale and slate rock and its sound reminds me of flutes and clarinets with percussion provided by a percussionist’s triangle.
Mostly up here, the water itself is crystal clear and breathtakingly cold. On Waterfall Road there are two exceptions, two springs that announce themselves with burnt orange. If you look closely, you see the water itself is clear but carries with it tiny specks. These two springs must have decided to come to the surface through deposits of iron ore. The resultant surprise of color is caused when the iron flakes carried to the surface rust.
Eventually, we reach the bottom, and realize that the water magic is all behind us. Like a child at an amusement park, I long to race back up to the top and enjoy each spring, each waterfall again. “Maybe tomorrow,” Karl tells me, and we return to camp.
