Wildflowers unfailingly shock me with their abundance, their fragility, their tenacity: the nodding heads of yellow glacier lilies above dried vegetation still matted by recently melted snow; a sloping meadow brilliant with paintbrush; corn lilies with lush, poisonous foliage; mountain heather clinging to the base of the most barren of scree slopes. This profligacy defies altitude and exposure, the winters that arrive early and linger late, the carelessness of hikers. My mind fumbles with the categorizations of habitat, range, color, shape, scientific and common names. Each recognition, whether haltingly retrieved from my guide book or identified by a companion more capable than I, brings a tiny thrill of belonging, the small sense that I am more of this place.
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