A Mountain's Footprints

In Utah, a canyon unfurls from a mountainside. Arching walls rise up from either side, glowing orange under the southwest sun. Streaks of black, where waterfalls once flowed, spill down the rock.

On an early winter day, I walked beneath the walls on frost-covered earth surrounded by aspen trees. Everything was still. No birds, no people, no breeze. Icicles hung suspended from the sandstone. I walked until I reached the back of the canyon, the place where the walls narrow and the canyon becomes the mountain again.

At the parking lot, I read a sign that said that the canyon is still growing. It meant to say that the mountain is still unfolding itself. It’s headed somewhere. And that I’m standing in a mountain’s footprints.

All we get to glimpse of its journey is a tiny snapshot in time. And with or without us, it’ll keep moving forward.