Above the Treeline of Hurricane Ridge

Recently, I climbed the path at Hurricane Ridge to Hurricane Hill. I paused often—not just to catch my breath, but because the beauty is arresting. Bluebells nodded in the breeze. A marmot stood watch from its perch. Chipmunks dart between roots and stones, unaware—or perhaps entirely aware—of the mountain grandeur surrounding them. It is the kind of place that leaves you breathless in more ways than one. Above the tree line, the Olympic Mountains stretched in layered blues and greys toward the sky, while behind me, the Puget Sound shimmered with light.

Sometimes, you have to get above the forest to get your bearings.

Up there, the air feels thinner, the world feels bigger, and somehow It is possible to feel both smaller and more connected. Not insignificant—just appropriately scaled. Like a wildflower on a windswept hillside, blooming boldly in the short window nature offers, with no audience but the marmots and the clouds. It doesn’t bloom because it’s guaranteed praise or permanence. It blooms because that’s what it was made to do.

We are like that too, I think, with our kindnesses and love.

Not every gesture will be remembered. Not every good deed will echo back. But compassion, love, and kindness is never wasted. It blooms where it falls. It seeds the ground for someone else. It may even lie dormant until some future season when conditions are just right. And then—unseen by us—it grows again.