In the Niche of Time

Mountains, like people, have their own particular personalities each is unique, each different from any other. And so it is with the San Francisco Peaks, near Flagstaff.

Ages past . . . a fiery birth. Molten, white-hot lava from deep within the earth burst forth through tectonic fracture, searing, cremating all life as it spread, radiating and heaping into conic mountain mass with lofty summit towering 13,000 feet above the level of the sea. Then it cooled. Rocks and boulders began to break down into soil, a bed for life . . . the niches.

Glaciers came to gouge . . . freezing, deadly cold. Life nil beneath the giant creeping ice monster, joined by the relentless, dynamic gnawing forces of erosion, breaking the symmetry of crater and cone . . . new niches from which new life could begin, grow and change through time.

Niches are the little places: hollows under rock overhangs sheltered from the elements, crevices which have caught enough soil to support tiny seeds or merely lichens and moss.

The niches harbor the delicate, the brave, the pioneers and the intimate personality of the mountain. Niches support the miniature: the scarlet primrose blooming gayly in the shadows, columbine laughing in the breeze, a tiny potentilla poking its inflorescence toward the sun from between two rocks, the bent and prostrate bristlecone pine, shuddering in the winter wind as it whistles through the boulders above the tree line. Niches are ubiquitous, ever present through the seasons. They make up the mountain, where life occurs. The mountain dominates the landscape for many miles with its singular beauty. No season is the same, as no two years are alike on the mountain. And with the seasons come the many moods and changes. All this happens in the niches. continued page 33

Peter Bloomer

(Below) A giant slumbers, capped in winter's frosty mantilla.

Peter Bloomer (Right) Coldly aloof, the season's last snow caps Mt. Agassiz.

Peter Bloomer

(Left) With early spring the mountain awakens. San Francisco Peaks and Sunset Crater National Monument. Ed Cooper (Right) A family of tiny forest mushrooms, the season's first new life on the mountain. David Muench (Below) A mountain niche harbors the delicate, the brave, the pioneers. Josef Muench (Following panel) A mountain is an exclusive experience. Carrying a late mantle of snow, the San Francisco Peaks rise prominently amidst a stand of ponderosa pine. Josef Muench

DID YOU EVER SING TO A MOUNTAIN?

Did you ever sing to a mountain, did you ever reach for the sky? Have you seen columbine and primrose, have you been there to hear the wind sigh?

Her summit is barren and windswept, few trees are able to live. When you see them all gnarled and twisted, a certain respect you must give. Below, away from the summit, spruce, fir and pine grow tall. With patches of trembling aspen, where fire once happened to fall. They say she was once a volcano, millions of years ago. Now she stands there ever so proudly, through seasons of wind, rain and snow. I have sung to the mountain, and I have reached for the sky. I feel her magnificent beauty. I have been there and heard the wind sigh....

(Far left) An abundance of summer life carpets an enchanted aspen grove. David Muench (Left) Sparkling drops of morning dew enhance the beauty of the fragile lupine. John Running (Below) A sunset silhouette, the close of another perfect day. George McCullough (Left) Late summer nature patterns exist in every flowering plant caressed by the soft mountain wind. Gill Kenny (Below) Autumn on the mountain and aspen green turns swiftly to yellow . . . then gold. David Muench (Right) Bent and prostrate, the ancient bristlecone pine prepares itself for another clash with winter's winds. David Muench (Following panel) The mountain, in an autumnal mood, begins its preparations for the long winter sleep. Trevor Stanley

NICHE OF TIME from page 16

Spring brings the thaw. The frozen ground oozes as the temperature rises to the call of another season on the mountain. Tiny sprigs of green begin to push their way toward the sun. Aspen, oak and maple explode into patches of new green, awakening from dormancy. Fresh shoots emerge from the bases of the grasses life begins anew.

Summer is the climax of the year on San Francisco Mountain; life is abundant...full... beautiful... But summer is so short-lived! The first freezing wind blows in too soon. Aspen green turns to yellow then gold.

Whisk! Overnight the autumn gold of aspen turns to winter gray, as the first of the strong winds denudes the trees in unison, strewing the ground below with a carpet of gold. The mountain begins to sleep again. All this happens in the niches.

Tenure of one of these tiny crannies is at best temporary. The venerable old bristlecone will live for 2000 years in one tiny spot, contrasted with the one season interlude of a tiny alpine flower. The next season the same spot may have a different tenant or it may completely disappear with a brief earth tremor or a snow avalanche.

So it is that life in these little places is dynamic, ever changing, as are the tiny niches themselves, from the life within their bounds, and from outside influence beyond their control.

Once man has experienced these tiny worlds his concept of the mountain may change, so that when he beholds the magnificent profile against the sky, he remembers what it is that, in combination, makes the mountain perfect with perfect beings in perfect balance.

Descriptions of mountains are always inadequate. Perhaps it is the lack of words in man's languages, or perhaps that mountains themselves defy description by man. People are hopefully individuals. And mountains, like people, are individuals, too. So that one man's attempt to describe a particular mountain is singular at its outset and singular at its conclusion.

A mountain is an exclusive experience for man, whether he looks up to the mountain from a distant point on the landscape, or lives on its slopes in an intimate relationship. He becomes a real part of the mountain. His moods reflect the mountain's moods, and he becomes a part of the mountain and all its quiet little places. This is infinite in itself. It is the ultimate experience. This, San Francisco Mountain provides, and its beauty is an incentive for patience on the part of man for Nature.