The translation to the Rocky Mountains is completed by a grove of trembling aspens that stretches along the trail’s long sidehill climb toward the peak.

    In the aspen grove
    A wave of applause follows
    The cool passing breeze

To reach the peak, I scramble up a pile of granite boulders and duck beneath the metal railing that was once part of a fire lookout here.  Only now, atop the ridge, does the eastern panorama appear and join the view to the west.  All the mountains of my world are in sight: Shasta and Mount Ashland and Pilot Rock; Grizzly, McLoughlin, and Roxy Ann; Elijah, Pearson, and the Red Buttes.  At my feet is my town, Ashland: the schools, the stores, my place of work; almost my house, just hidden behind a lower ridge.  A world of dreamers and dreams, held within my outstretched hand.

Did the obsidian man ever stand upon these stones?  He would have gazed down as I do, at the same but utterly different valley, experiencing his own mixture of memories, hopes, and regrets.  He would have seen every peak that I see.  I am certain that he would have looked at each in turn and, aloud or in silence, would have spoken each of their names.  What were those names? What did he call this beautiful mountain?  What was the first, lost name of “Wagner Butte?”

I remove the flake of obsidian from my mouth and place it on the top of a solitary granite spire.  It is time to begin the long descent.

    Late afternoon sun
    Long shadows cross the mountain
    The birds are silent