The Masters

After an entire day flying and driving I arrive at a place that feels familiar to where I started.  There’s permafrost and plants here that are usually found above the Arctic Circle. A nearby pamphlet explains why: every 1,000 feet of elevation gain is the equivalent to traveling 600 miles north. And at the edge of this tree line in the Colorado Rockies stands another wonder, the vanguard of the forest below, the bristle-cone pine. Though this grove isn’t as old as the one in California that holds Methuselah, the tree that’s been living since 2833 BC, these ones are still ancient. Standing next to them I sense the presence of the extraordinary.

Trees age like us.

In our youth we’re short and bendy, and as we age we become tall and stiff. But your needles last as long as our entire youth. A single breath of yours lasts a generation for us, and you'll see many of us come and go.  As long as one season feels for us, our entire lives will feel like one season to you. We'll buzz around you for a time and be your insects.

And you’ll outlast even our language.

You’ll stand, twisted by the wind across eons, sometimes just one thin little strip of bark still holding life. Are you still alive under there?  Or are you sleeping?

I dare not even touch your bark skin rough from centuries of weather, for fear of crumbling away your armor you’ve crafted over one of our generations and held across centuries.

And in our entire lifetimes as we come and go, you can stand in death, preserved in the cold for centuries after your last strip of bark dies.