Sounds of the Rolling Huts

We first came to the Rolling Huts in late summer 2013. It was sunny, hot, and dry, smelling of caramelized pine sap, river rocks, and calamine lotion. I got stung by yellow jackets multiple times that first visit, so now I only come in the winter. Oslo and Mies were with us when a photographer from Sunset Magazine asked if he could take our photos for a story he was doing on the Methow. I’ve been meaning to look him up on LinkedIn for years to see if he still has them.

Time is different here. Once you turn north from Wenatchee, it shape shifts under the basalt cliffs rising like drapes of tan velvet on both banks of the mighty Columbia, slowing down in reverence to the volcanoes that birthed this beautiful place. Mother Nature is in no hurry, evolution knows no deadlines.

We turn westward. Vineyards and orchards yield to the sharp white edges of the North Cascades. Conifers multiply, reminding me of the Animas river valley near the town where I grew up.

Rocky Mountains, forever.

When time slows, your thoughts slow with it. The bells and pings of metal expanding as the wood stove turns red; the crunch and sparkle of snow compressing under arctic boots; the swish and sigh of skis on a just-groomed trail are all clues that for now, in this place, a minute lingers longer, an hour stretches farther in this magical corner you now call home.

Pacific Northwest, forever.