This summer Confluence invited our members to be attuned to the stories of the sun and the stories of our lives that are made under the sun. Here are three short stories from the Confluence Leadership Team from the Summer of 2024.
Gunsight Lake - Colter Murphy
Our group approaches the suspension bridge that spans the outlet of the alpine lake. It’s our second bridge of the same kind on this backpacking trip, so we know the drill: one at a time. Claire goes first, ascending the short ladder-like steps onto the wooden platform, and then taking careful strides on the planks held by cables to cross. I’m next. The cables give each of my steps a fun yet unstable bounce. I stop in the middle of the bridge to snap a photo of the lake. Its glacial blue is vivid in the morning sun.
On the other side of the bridge, I stop and aim my phone at Jory, who is aiming his phone back at me. We laugh about taking a picture of the other person taking a picture.
The trail ascends a consistent and steep grade from the lake through dense alder bushes and fireweed. In many spots along the trail, the brush is over our heads and obscures the rocky path below. It’s bear country so we’re clicking our trekking poles together and shouting human phrases like “HEYYYOOO” and “HELLO BEAR!”
The going isn’t easy, and we stop to stretch our legs and drink some water. My cotton bucket hat is already soaked through with sweat, and we aren’t even close to the top of our climb. I peer up the trail at what lies ahead: a rocky traverse along a cliffside. I’m struck with the sudden recollection that I’m afraid of heights. The air feels cool among the plants on this mountainside, the sun illuminates the lake and we rest in the shadow of the peak above.
I stare across the lake at the flowing layers of Belt rock carved by glaciers, now streaming with waterfalls from snowmelt above. The going isn’t easy, but the views are second to none. I let myself lean further back into my pack, and take deep breaths to steady myself for the climb that remains.
Sun Story 1 - Karin A. Craven
This is the summer of Ruby and Squirrels. It is also my summer of Porches and Ponderosa Pines. Together, meaning Ruby the German Shepherd and I, have logged countless hours under the dappled pine shade on our back porch. We take in the air and its sounds. This season we seem to be attuned to sounds of the squirrel. No longer do we need to look to distinguish the sound difference squirrels make. We know the scrabbling sounds of scampering up and down the tree trunk from the sharp sounds of squirrels eating pinecones.
We seem to have a cheeky squirrel or two. They tell us off in wild bursts of chatter. They suddenly appear above us, peering down over the roof and then, making eye contact with us, disappear to the pattering of paws. We see them next as they leap from rooftop to bough, running up the tree along select branches to perch high above us, showing off their skill at grappling with pinecones as they devour their outsized meal. These squirrely kin are so playful, so intent on being seen and heard by Ruby and me. The emergence of their now daily presence makes me grateful for the joy and delight of our mutual gaze.
I haven’t seen anyone on one of the busier trails in Missoula. It’s 8:30am on a weekday and most people are sitting down to their full inboxes and todo lists, but I’m running. I love the gentle downhill that takes me toward the homestead, peaks of the Rattlesnake to my right and town to my left - a different ecosystem in each direction and me on the dividing line. On the treeless ridge the sun feels warmer than it did in the parking lot and I’m grateful for the wisdom of “be bold, start cold”. The grade steepens down to drop off the ridge to the south and as it climbs again I take in the view. The morning sun highlights the haze, but the Bitterroot range is what draws my eye and my awe. Maybe it’s my huffing and puffing that makes me stop, but I like to believe it’s the view. The soft light washes me with gratitude and suddenly it’s not enough to be connected to the ground only through my feet, through my shoes. I plant one hand in the dirt trail and with the other cue up music with words that give thanks far better than my own.
We will call this place our home
The dirt in which our roots may grow
Though the storms will push and pull
We will call this place our home
With dust between my fingers I jog back to the trailhead, vowing to meet the morning light on the trail another day. I ask for the fullness of gratitude to go with me as my car in the parking lot comes into view. I carry the music of the moment with me instead.
Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind
Let our hearts like doors open wide, open wide
Settle our bones like wood over time, over time
Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine.
Listen to “North” by Sleeping at Last here: https://open.spotify.com/track/7HQCXYyaBmhugyRDvy4V7m?si=525dadb79e154d7a
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