Red Hills are Good for the Soul
Today, I got to head out to Red Canyon, ostensibly to hunt rabbits, but mostly to wander around, launch arrows at twigs and dirt clods, look for petroglyphs, confuse the daylights out of some muley does (I've been working on my fawn bleat; it still needs work), and generally let the magic of beautiful country wash the crud of a stressful week out of my head.
It is hard for some people to believe that teaching elementary music can be stressful. I won't go into the reasons here. Those of you who work in the current education system need no explanation; the rest of you will have to take my word for it. It isn't like being an EMT or an infantryman; there is no trauma or horror, but little things build up over time. For me, nothing cleans out the old attic like an afternoon in the red cliff-juniper country.
My rabbit arrows, despite being the wrong spine for my bow, were flying well. No suicidal rabbits presented themselves as candidates for my supper, so I poked around in the cliffs, looking for interesting things. I didn't find anything overtly amazing--no shed antlers, animal skulls, historical artifacts, or rare animal sightings. But there were fox tracks in the snow; goofy chickadees, dignified magpies, and nervous robins to keep me company; a townsend's solitaire uttering its jubilant, slightly manic song, completely out of keeping with its somber colors; and at every turn those mysterious, intricately shaped, promise-filled red cliffs.
I can drive less than half-an-hour from Badger Manor to places where I can spend a whole day exploring without seeing another person or retracing my tracks. I am very, very blessed.
It is hard for some people to believe that teaching elementary music can be stressful. I won't go into the reasons here. Those of you who work in the current education system need no explanation; the rest of you will have to take my word for it. It isn't like being an EMT or an infantryman; there is no trauma or horror, but little things build up over time. For me, nothing cleans out the old attic like an afternoon in the red cliff-juniper country.
My rabbit arrows, despite being the wrong spine for my bow, were flying well. No suicidal rabbits presented themselves as candidates for my supper, so I poked around in the cliffs, looking for interesting things. I didn't find anything overtly amazing--no shed antlers, animal skulls, historical artifacts, or rare animal sightings. But there were fox tracks in the snow; goofy chickadees, dignified magpies, and nervous robins to keep me company; a townsend's solitaire uttering its jubilant, slightly manic song, completely out of keeping with its somber colors; and at every turn those mysterious, intricately shaped, promise-filled red cliffs.I can drive less than half-an-hour from Badger Manor to places where I can spend a whole day exploring without seeing another person or retracing my tracks. I am very, very blessed.
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