“There’s a detour on the main river road, so finding my way home after a trip to town offers up choices, and since one of my tires is compromised I’ve been choosing the least bumpy route. Hardly an imposition, considering that I choose to live in a relatively remote part of the state. I don’t expect prefect conditions, ever. The ride around takes me up what I’ve come to consider my “bear path” because it’s near where I found Ira. He’s the bear abandoned bear cub, I happened upon last March. There’s a sizeable swath of forest here, conserved by a local non-profit, and I guess I know parts of it now, because it is less trodden, generally speaking. The science oriented people who’ve claimed it, for research purposes, try to keep the citizenry out. I understand that, and I see the point of it. However, I think poets need access, as well as biologists, and I have likely paid my dues, if any of my fool-hardy climbs may count as proof, of my dedication towards documenting the wild. It often begins innocently enough, with a good-natured impulse to squeeze off road, and into a ditch, where the term “parking” couldn’t be, factually, applied. And normally, I’m only intending a quick run-in, as if I were a horse. But how many days like these do we have left in September? The stream bed I’ve targeted, is filled with an amber, photogenic light. I’ve read maps, and studied boundaries, and I’m quite familiar with the terrain, in my head. I’ve walked the perimeter of the canyon, as best I could, despite someone’s concerted effort to destroy trails, by ditching and felling trees across old logging roads. It’s almost as if the harder they try to keep me out, they don’t realize, they are luring me in. This is a unique rural game, of cat and mouse. The more they imply “you can’t go here anymore”, the more I want to see what they’re hoarding. It’s just a silly errand, up a few hundred meters, to get a few shots of the brook. But somehow, time becomes fractured, and the invitation to climb higher, is hardly a thing to be measured. As the ravine grows tighter, the glint of spray bouncing off boulders sets a rhythm, grabbing each foot fall, as I plunge upward. The next bend, is always just beyond the visible.. Not an easy path, but this water makes it look effortless. I too, long for what the elements display in spades, and curvatures, and jagged symmetry. What has forged such an architecture of love? It reminds me of my own, cataclysmic assent, echoing the fissures & breaks, the smoothness of eventuality. And suddenly, I’ve gone too far. Who hasn’t felt this - having overreached but not met the goal - now paralyzed, with indecision and fear? I admit I did not plan to be in danger. One rarely does. Half way up a water course of slimy, moss covered slopes, I stop in my tracks. I’m standing, barely wet with no way out, but to fully immerse myself in the flow. I remember the many Everest videos I’ve watched, in which unexpected junctures occurred, thrusting life before death. I gather my wits and tell myself to breathe. You can go down, if you have to, but it would not be nice. You can go up, but there are no handholds, no roots, no staging grounds for respite. I crouch for 15 minutes or so, deliberating on my bad circumstances. The cold water pumps round me, on a warm day, no chance of hypothermia, not immediately anyway. I will need to outwit this. I can’t not over-tax my muscles, nor stress to the point of panic. So I find the only firm foothold I know, and stay in a place of stasis. I clear my mind, and pray to my team. I use my hands, to explore for any crevice, or knob, that might be used to pull a whole body up and over. Eventually, I begin to open myself, to options I hadn’t imagined. Small things. It doesn’t matter that my clothes will be soaked. Rolling onto a slight indentation, I’m now able to reach for a grip. I drag myself up the waterfall, onto higher ground. This is just the beginning, of something new. My relief, a full body experience, is a watery thank-you, tremulous and spent. The ridge trail I’ve been hoping to find, appears beyond a far precipice. The mountain stream plashing beneath my rubber boots is no longer threatening. I stumble over remnants of a fire ring, and a tree tag and metal post denoting the corner of a lumber company holding. Rounded boulders stand like guardians of some sacred sanctuary. Gracious hemlocks define a natural island amphitheater, surrounded by ledges of dripping light. I am clearly heading home.”
