There is a place in the Colorado mountains where I sometimes go in my mind. It is cool there, the ground shaded by spruce and fir trees and carpeted by their cast needles. It is steep country which lies more than 9,000 feet above sea level. The slope where I visit in my imaginings drops sharply to the east and, as I wander around there, I can see Bear Mountain and Ryder Peaks now and then through openings in the thick overstory.

I drift past the spot where I shot the blue grouse with my elk rifle and savored its white breast meat in camp that evening over three decades ago. The air gets cooler as I drift down the silent forest ridge, my body gliding effortlessly and void of even a hint of residual perspiration.

As adjacent slopes converge near the bottom their steep angles turn even steeper, now almost vertical, and my ridge stops abruptly, transforming suddenly into a sheer cliff which provides a secluded overlook of a twisted run of Muddy Creek. The name seems almost to be an insult to this clear, pristine stream. It got its name from its rushing waters 20 miles downstream near its confluence with the Colorado River. Here there is no mud in sight here.

The terrain commands me to pause and view the scene below. I linger here a while, first surveying the beautiful wooded valley, looking down into the tops of its evergreen trees and then moving in mind and spirit to anticipation and gratitude. For in the next moments, I will descend the slope on a game trail to the south of the overlook and be in the place I now view from above, and I will be grateful for the privilege.

Once I step beside the little stream and hear its trickling and quiet bubbling, I am aware that these are the only sounds in the valley. I am reminded that in this place I will not hear a single sound of my routine daily life. Even the rare airliner I sometimes see with difficulty through the tree tops flies in silence, perhaps because of its altitude. I know if I wait here long enough, and I pray that I shall, I will hear other sounds which sanctify this wooded world.

Before the day is over, a bald eagle will soar overhead, combing this upper stretch of Muddy Creek before gliding once more southward where the timber gives way to the lush grass of Barber’s Basin and prey is more easily seen. If I am lucky, the eagle will announce its overflight with its single shrill scream before turning back. If not today, then perhaps I will hear its call tomorrow. There is no hurry.

As the sun sinks over beyond the drainages of Service Creek, Morrison Creek and the Yampa River and beyond them the great Flat Top Wilderness, I look for a good spot to make camp for the night, reminded of my need to find a campsite by the coyotes beginning to howl. There is a flat spot where I can hear the creek bubbling over the rocks, a nice break from the dead silence of the night.

A small campfire heats my supper and I soon find myself inside the tiny tent and the warm sleeping bag after a long look at the stars, so many that they look like dust. I think of all the people in the world who haven’t seen the stars from 9,000 feet elevation. They’ve never learned that there are three times as many stars as you can see at sea level.

A coyote howls up on the plateau; A bull elk screams so the herd will gather close as they file down to the creek for water before foraging. I fall asleep wondering if anyone in the world is in a better place than I.