THE WILDFLOWERS ARE WHAT STICK IN MY MEMORY;
the bear grass, the lupine, the asters. It was not only the sheer
abundance of them, like carpets rolling themselves out wherever
water fell toward the valley below, but also the resilience of them,
making a quiet but unarguable show in between the craggy rocks.
Far down below, out of the mountains at the farm, we tend our share
of domestic flowers, many of which are dependent on our frequent
attention and intervention. Not these wild ones. These wild flowers
cohabitate with the mountain goats, drink ice melt, and I could tell,
did not give a shit that we found them beautiful.
STORY AND PHOTOS BY NOLAN CALISCH