During the Christmas break of my junior year in high school, it was time to go to Mexico and the beach again. I’d gone to Guaymas the previous year and was eager to do something similar again. Mexico was a big place, as far as I was concerned, and I’d just gone to one little piece of it on that trip. Once again, I was excited by the possibilities and the vast array of destination options.
Glad you’re out roamin’
My long-haired friend.
Goin’ places unknown,
And free as the wind.
Dodgin’ cactus and drop-offs
And relishin’ sun.
Lookin’ for shelter
And somewhere to run.
Explorin’ each instant,
Feelin’ the pain,
Searchin’ for supper,
And hidin’ from rain.
Sneakin’ past snakes
Always findin’ your way.
Sleepin’ up high
So as not to be prey.
Stayin’ cool in the heat
And warm in the cold.
Chasin’ wild crickets
And runnin’ from old.
Nappin’ on walls,
And heedin’ all warnins’,
Enjoyin’ the moments,
And smellin’ the mornins’.
Recollectin’ the past
Always thinkin’ ahead.
Takin’ what comes
With no thoughts of dread.
A little bit wild
Savvy and smart.
With good instincts
And cunning that set you apart
Some labeled you
Simply a feral cat.
But there’s more to your story
Than only just that:
Wanderin’ the world
Explorin’ new lands.
Livin’ the present
While meetin’ demands.
With the odds stacked against you
You’ve done more than survive.
A lifetime of learning
Has caused you to thrive.
Always eager to see
What the next day would bring.
You managed to live
In perpetual spring.
The big lessons I learned
From the times that we shared.
Is to bask in the present
While remainin’ prepared.
Audio Version:
Drizzly days
And hilltop haze.
Northern Lights
And starry nights.
Soggy trails
And empty sails.
Mountaintops
And hurt that stops.
Fields of flowers
And meteor showers.
Desert sands
And barren lands.
Paths aplenty
And options many.
Frozen hands
And fouled up plans.
Horrid heat
And driving sleet.
Summit hopes
And gentle slopes.
Thirst unquenched
And clothes all drenched.
Grazing herds
And flocks of birds.
Gentle breeze
And massive trees.
Blowing gales
And monster tales.
Wild Strawberries
And pristine prairies.
Foot stuck in mud
And massive flood.
Thorny shrubs
And a boot that rubs.
A swimming Otter
And fresh running water.
Deep snow on ridges
And rotten bridges.
Double rainbows
And grassy meadows.
Warm sunshine
And stars align.
Runout cracks
And big bear tracks.
Possibilities many
And thoughts of plenty.
No food or drink
And skunks that stink.
Butterflies
And stormy skies.
Hornet stings
And Condor wings.
Times of wonder
And times of thunder.
Wobbly fawns
And rainy dawns.
Squirrels at play
And birds of prey.
Rose hip tea
And churning sea.
Majestic views
And trails you lose.
Grand waterfalls
And sheer cliff walls.
Warming fire
And prickly briar.
Red sunsets
And route regrets.
Blue noontime sky
And dust in eye.
Lost, then found
And a cracking sound.
Unseen growls
And hooting owls.
Joyous hoots
And slippery roots.
Thank-god Holds
And summer colds.
Scree to ski
And crashing tree.
Moonlight glow
And blowing snow.
Horny Toads
And unneeded roads.
Times of glitch
And times of rich.
Times of pain
And times of gain.
Outside the door
There’s lots of or.
There’s good and bad.
And happy and sad.
So,
Embrace the rhymes
And engage the times.
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Audio Version:
Kick back and feel the moment,
Hear the music in the air.
Nature’s harmonizing,
Its sound is everywhere.
To the west, there’s thunder rumbling,
Down below a river roars.
Across the way, a wolf is howling,
While an eagle loudly soars.
In the forest tree trunks groan,
An unseen tree falls with a whack,
Footsteps walk an unknown trail,
And branches bend and loudly crack.
A fish splashes in the creek,
And rockfall echoes from the cirque.
Busy Beavers slap the water,
As they go about their work.
To the west, a coyote yips,
While staying just beyond your reach.
Raindrops pelt the leaves above,
Where two big Buzzards sit and screech.
On the ridge the north wind whistles,
As it blows between the rocks.
In the marsh, the frogs are croaking,
And they sound like ticking clocks.
What you hear is quite compelling,
But what you don’t is more profound.
So, close your eyes and listen hard,
To both the silence and the sound.
Audio Version:
He yelled to us to stop, from out of nowhere, it seemed. It was startling, and one of the last things on my mind, as I led the group of 9 teenage backpackers down the trail, headed back to our Base Camp facility after a week out in the Lost Creek Wilderness. We’d be back in less than an hour except for whatever was about to happen. He was ragged-looking, probably in his 40s, had a Pit Bull by his side, and, thankfully, kept his distance across a dry wash.
Lightning streaked across the sky and was followed instantly by an explosion of thunder, telling me that the thunderstorm was somewhere right above. It was unsettling, but there wasn’t time to worry about it. I didn’t see a lightning flash hit the ground but wondered if there was one up there that had one of our names written on it. The wind kept blowing relentlessly, and the constant gusting made the whole situation seem all the more chaotic. But, where’s the rain, I thought? The Tarryall Mountains needed it. A real downpour might put an end to both the Hayman Fire (Colorado’s largest wildfire ever, up to that point), and the smaller thing that was visibly burning on the nearby mountainside.
Since I outweighed Quentin by 60 or so pounds, I was confident I could hold him if he broke through the ice and fell into a crevasse.
There was no doubt that a bunch of those often-bottomless glacier cracks known as crevasses were running beneath us. But most were hidden from view beneath thin layers of the snow and ice of the Ruth Glacier. The situation had me on edge. Even though probing the route as we moved along was tedious, it was especially imperative since it was June and the surrounding world of ice was thawing rather than freezing. Undoubtedly, a huge crevasse field was hidden below us. But we were hoping to find a relatively safe way across it to get our whole group up onto the ridge above.
No sail for the wind,
Or rock to ascend.
No birds in the sky,
Or reasons to cry.
No bike for the trail,
Or mountain to scale.
No sun for the day,
Or words yet to say.
No cold for the heat,
Or dance for the beat.
No fly for the trout,
Or sense in the route.
No skis for the snow,
Or mystery to know.
No tent for the night,
Or rope to keep tight.
No found for the lost,
Or gain to the cost.
No coat for the storm,
Or way to stay warm.
No boat for the river,
Or stop to the shiver.
No pack for the stuff,
Or smooth for the rough.
No elk for the wallow,
Or pathways to follow,
No skates for the ice,
Or bowl for the rice.
No cool for the hot,
Or stove for the pot.
No tent for the rain,
Or gain for the pain.
No boots for the feet,
Or snacks left to eat.
No water for the drink,
Or reasons to think.
No gloves for the hands,
Or wild in the lands.
No parks for the town,
Or trails to walk down.
No socks for the feet,
Or strangers to meet.
No summits to reach,
No moments that teach.
No ring in the bell,
No story to tell.
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Audio Version:
Our OWA group was backpacking on the Big Island of Hawaii along the Mulawai Trail. The first night out, we camped in Waipio Canyon. The next day, we headed toward Waimanu Canyon and stopped for the night on a rustic camping platform provided by the state Division of Forestry and Wildlife. The shelter was conveniently located on a mountaintop within a day’s walking distance of the trailhead and was a welcome sight after our long and hot climb through the jungle and up the Z Switchbacks. We reached the elevated platform in the middle of the afternoon, and since there was still plenty of daylight and because we were all physically drained, everyone picked a spot and stretched out on the shaded, relatively clean plywood for a quick nap before setting up camp for the night. As I dozed off, I thought contentedly of gentle breezes, juicy Lilikoi fruit, and thick clouds.
If all went as planned, we’d get to our Wind River Range campsite by late afternoon, which would leave us with plenty of daylight for setting up the tents, organizing gear, and even resting a bit before cooking supper. Our backpacks were heavy, but, being mostly young and fit, we’d already covered 10 of the 15 miles planned for the day by lunch. At just a little after 1 o’clock, we crossed Roaring Fork Creek and stopped on the other side to change out of our river shoes and eat our midday meal of tuna, Bolton Biscuits, and gorp. Among other things, the stop also provided a nice break from the uphill grind we’d been on for the past several hours.
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