Four years ago today I hiked the Loop at dawn (as I did every morning that spring) although I very specifically remember thinking that day as I navigated the steep downhill section near Cliff’s workshop that I should stop by his cabin to say hello before embarking on a busy Sunday full of plans. But time was short due to a commitment in Bozeman; the extra chore of loading my bike for a rather impromptu plan to ride up Hyalite that afternoon after the meditation retreat was over and yet another phone call to a Hospice nurse (momma care) before the retreat. Cliff wasn’t on his deck, where he often enjoyed morning coffee with the birds and squirrels he kept so well fed so I whispered a good morning hello as I strode by. Cliff died in his cabin that morning. I’m certain it was during those moments. I believe he didn’t want me to be the one to find his body (at least that is what I tell myself if guilt or the “what if’s” try to torture me). I do believe it was how Cliff would have orchestrated things - always to spare me if he could. This morning just after dawn, Tala and I hiked the Loop. She was concerned when I cried in the sunshine at the Sound of Music Meadow. I cried and I smiled. So. Much. Love. Cliff loved spring and he loved me. I felt his love on the hike four years ago and a zillion times since that spring morning - including today; yet also I felt something deeper: I felt my feet connected to earth and Cliff. Beneath my feet, fungi and trees are connected in an intricate vast network of nature mutually caring for each other. Cliff’s connection to me is part of a similar vast network which includes this mountain, these trees and worlds beyond us - mutually caring for each other. Still.