You might reach a summit
In the middle of a foggy night,
And stand on a rock looking out
At distant peaks
Poking out above the clouds,
And illuminated by a full moon.
It could happen.
Perhaps, you’ll walk for miles
Along a hot beach
To get to a place
Where you can see sharks
In a feeding frenzy,
And where Tapirs still
Roam around at night.
It could happen.
It’s possible that you’ll retreat
From a poorly conceived climb,
And walk-up on a naked beauty
In the middle of nowhere
Washing off under a waterfall.
It could happen.
It’s not out of the question,
That an unknown young Tarahumara man
Will walk into your camp
And invite you to a
Dutuburi.
It could happen.
Perhaps you will be lucky enough
To see elk calves
Sliding down a snowfield,
And being scolded by their elders
When they reach the bottom.
It could happen.
Maybe, an Andean wolf
Will appear
Out of the clouds,
On your way down
From a high-altitude hut,
Look you over,
And just disappear back into the clouds.
It could happen.
Sometimes:
Upper stories of hotels are uncompleted;
Moths fly into ears;
Anchors hold;
Treble hooks get lodged in eyelids;
Rattlesnakes don’t strike;
Storms end;
Trees go up in flames;
Boats show up with your gear;
The Corona truck falls off a cliff;
The fish are biting;
The trail just stops;
The Northern Lights appear where they’re not supposed to;
Handlebars break;
Your hair stands on end;
Shortnosed Spearfish take the hook;
The wind blows your raft upstream;
Climbing routes run out;
Don’t close the gate.
Just be ready for the unexpected,
Because mysteries happen.
I look out the window
Of the three-seat plane,
As we near the landing site
On the Ruth Glacier.
In the Alaska Range.
Not long after take-off, we flew over trees, rivers, and then the lower Glacier.
Now, we’re flying through the Great Gorge
Between startlingly huge mountains
And above a river of ice.
The world is the colors of snow, rock, and sky.
Prominent peaks dominate.
Denali, the great one, is straight ahead but not close.
The Moose’s Tooth is to our right and nearby,
Both imposing but welcoming.
In the Alaska Range.
Suddenly, we break free of the Gorge
And fly into the Ruth Amphitheater.
The venue of venues.
The Cessna turns left
Toward the Mountain House.
We haven’t even landed yet,
But the concert has already begun.
In the Alaska Range.
We’re late, what should we do?
I take a deep breath,
And realize that thankfully we’re not too late,
Because the music never ends.
The sky is clear
And the landing site on the snow is vivid.
The closer we get to the ground,
The more massive and magnificent the peaks become.
In the Alaska Range.
The plane touches down and stops.
I open the door and step
Out onto the Ruth.
Warm in my parka
Overwhelmed by the surroundings.
There are few people, no musical instruments,
No conductor,
And not much of an audience.
But I feel the full force of what I hear,
And am compelled
To whisper to myself where all can hear, “Bravo.”
The sun goes down
And once again
The nightly spectacle begins.
The stars begin arriving early.
But wait!
The bright light of the full moon
Is overwhelming
The masterpiece of the skies.
It makes everything else invisible to the eye.
But thankfully, like always,
The situation is only temporary.
And the show will go on.
So, for the moment, I relish the things I do see.
I stretch out in my sleeping bag
In an open meadow and look up.
I stay awake
Long enough to
See the moon set.
The temperature is dropping,
But my sleeping bag
Is made for that.
So, I warmly
Look up as the stars
Begin to take control.
And I imagine.
The afternoon’s storm
Has long passed
And cleaned the air.
The night is brilliantly clear.
And suddenly,
The Milky Way
Shows up in all its glory.
To the south,
The constellations of the Zodiac
Are on the march.
One of them,
Scorpio, Scorpius– the Scorpion, is particularly obvious.
At least for the moment.
But it’ll soon disappear into the horizon.
Because it always does.
For me, it’s the constellation of summer,
And adds to my warmth.
But it also makes me think of Orion,
My constellation of winter.
Though unseen,
The thought of it sends a chill to my feet.
Almost overhead,
Mars casts its red light
In untwinkling brilliance.
The untwinkling part is proof that it’s a planet.
I scan the sky for another planet.
But everything is twinkling.
Points of light are everywhere,
Inundating my senses.
My eyes are full of stars and galaxies.
But what of the millions
That are there, but beyond
What I can see.
And then, the fog begins to roll in.
Think fast before it fully arrives, I conclude.
Did my Kentucky great, great grandparents
Look up at the same sky, I wonder?
Is their vision of what they saw floating around out there in space?
Is a vision a concrete thing?
How far away can anything go?
The questions begin to accumulate.
Will they be answered before
The clouds takeover?
Then suddenly, I arrive at a non-answer
As I decide to figure it out later.
And the sky goes dark
As I drift off to sleep.
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