God’s abundance on the road less traveled

Both front tires of our Honda 500 ATV left the ground for a moment and then settled back onto the trail. I laughed both in disbelief and exhilaration.
As Ted continued to maneuver the steep ascent over the boulders, I finally caught a glimpse of the marker: Trail 34, most difficult. Underneath the words a squiggly line looked like a snake.
Why were two senior citizens and one mini schnauzer bouncing up the hill toward Elk Ridge? We’d left home that morning planning to photograph wildflowers and butterflies just like we’d done the day before in the San Juan Mountains.
The day before we were tooling along a mountain road north of Mancos, Colorado, and came to a fork in the road. “Which way?” Ted slowed the Jeep.
Since it was new terrain for us, I said, “Maybe we should stay on the more traveled road.”
“Let’s take the one less traveled,” my hubby countered, heading toward the road that obviously hadn’t been driven on much, “and see where it leads us.”
Chunks of shale jerked us around as we climbed higher and higher. Finally Ted pulled off to the side in the middle of an aspen, ponderosa, and blue spruce forest, and we climbed out, savoring the cool air, scent of pine, and chipping sparrows’ songs.
We hiked along a narrow path that crossed a stream several times. All around us wildflowers bloomed.
We identified those we knew: Lupine, sweet peas, wild roses, elk weed, purple and white columbine, red columbine, mule’s ears, wild geraniums, wild strawberries, a million or more dandelions, elderberry, and giant paintbrush.
Some we didn’t know, so I snapped their photos on my PictureThis app to identify later: California false hellebore, Jacob’s ladder, common lomatium, Howell’s marsh marigold, fernleaf biscuitroot, curve-beak lousewort, and cows clover.
The profusion, diversity, and vibrancy made it a pollinator’s paradise, and I felt we’d somehow stumbled into a more heavenly realm. Ted’s less-traveled road had led us to God’s astounding abundance, and we were loath to leave it for the lower, hotter climes.
However, home and responsibilities called, so after we ate lunch, with our nervous systems rejuvenated, we headed for Blanding, our senses filled with the colors, smells, and sounds of the mountains.
We don’t often go exploring two days in a row, but it was a holiday weekend, so the next day when Ted asked where I wanted to go, I said, “To see the flowers on our mountains,” which is how we ended up on Trail 34, bucking up the ridge toward the Elk.
This time, we’d taken our 50-inch-wide ATV, just big enough for the two of us with our little dog sandwiched between on a stack of cooler packs.
As I drove up the South Cottonwood road, sweat dripped off the ends of my hair, which wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I said I wanted to see wildflowers.
Finally, we entered the ponderosa forest and I pulled over. “Your turn,” I told Ted as I clambered out to stretch my legs and backside, grateful for the shade.
After I climbed back in, Ted drove a short distance and then turned onto Trail 34 which leads to the Gooseberry guard station.
We’d hiked partway up the trail in the past without any problem, and for a while it was easy driving through oak thickets that arched over the tracks. Then, the rocks grew bigger, and the path became gullied from heavy rains.
After our tires settled back onto the ground, Ted eased over more boulders, high centering several times, so he had to back up and clear the path. He finally shifted our little tank into four-wheel drive.
I probably wasn’t grateful enough for the free chiropractic adjustments, and Kenidee, who’s terrified of rough roads, certainly wasn’t grateful.
We sighed in relief as we finally topped out and putted – like two senior citizens should – along the trail by the Gooseberry guard station.
We drove several miles to a path that led down to a spring where Ted stopped, and I opened the door to let Kenidee jump out. She ran circles around us, then put her nose to the earth to track an alluring scent, excited to be on solid ground.
Shrugging on our backpacks, we walked down to the spring – beautiful, crystal clear water coming out of the earth’s heart. And yes, wildflowers bloomed everywhere, not as profusely as on the higher San Juan Mountains, but exquisite in the sunlight.
We followed the stream down to a small pond and scooted under a giant ponderosa’s branches to eat lunch.
Savoring every bite of my pasta leftovers, I watched wrens as they flitted among the ponderosa’s needles, listened to a flicker as it hammered a nearby tree, and followed the flight of a swallowtail butterfly as it landed on wild roses.
By the time we crawled out from the ponderosa we all smelled like pine resin, one of the most delectable scents in the world.
On the way home, albeit with some side excursions, Ted took the well-traveled road south across the Elk where, much to our surprise, we spotted a yearling bear scampering in front of us before it disappeared like a mirage into the trees.
Well-traveled or less traveled, at the end of the day, I was deeply grateful to tag along with my hubby and discover where the roads led us. In his poem, “The Road Not Taken,” Robert Frost writes, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”