We walked through a forest that once was illuminated by man, “a paradise of color in the wilderness.” We could see rusty light fixtures screwed into trees from the past. It was odd to see man-made fixtures hanging from old trees but it’s part of the history of Ladder Creek Falls and somehow in our travels to such rugged, wild places, there’s a constant reminder that man was here and took it upon himself to violate what we now try to or should protect.

But there’s also a reminder that we are just visitors in this natural world, we will come and go and the wild will simply evolve but never cease. We drove to the heart of North Cascades. When I first saw the water here I couldn’t understand how it could be that blue. It wasn’t the kind of blue you find in the sky or sea—almost more majestic and mysterious. 

Later, I learned North Cascades is home to over 300 glaciers and about glacial flour which are fine rock particles suspended in water, ground down by centuries of ice pressing and pulling against stone. A part of centuries soft undoing. And when sunlight hits these tiny particles, it scatters light, transforming the lake into luminous shades of turquoise, jade, and emerald. 

But in that moment, I didn’t know the science. I only knew my awe. 

And here I trailed my hand through the slow light and watched my fingers blur. A small gesture touching centuries of a slow undoing. 

Nature has a way of reminding us that beauty is often the result of breaking down. Rock becomes powder, powder becomes radiance. What was once hard and unyielding becomes something that glows.

Sitting there, I thought: This is what the world has always done. It turns water into prayer and lets the rest go.

And maybe that’s what we’re invited to do too.