Jun 1, 2007
Love Songs
I wonder if you know that every day you go about your usual business, that you carry with you my heart. Not just a piece, not just that we have a close bond. The entirety of it, all inclusive, is with you. I cannot, no matter how I try, separate loving from you. I don’t know how, and I don’t believe one can exist without the other. I wonder also, how long will this continue? Not how long will I wait, for how can one give up their very heart? It is a question of circumstance, willingness and reciprocation. How long will you walk this world carrying the very part of me that allows my blood to flow, my breath to shake, and my bones to melt? When will it finally break me, when will I experience release, and if I do, will that mean an end to my heart? How could anyone ever carry the weight you hold? How could I possibly allow another to hold the beating, to have my breath? Should this loving of you be enough, and should I never ask to carry your heart? I would be so delicate with it. I would honor and care for it, defend it and fight forever for it. Would I be fighting in vain? Is this the pain of love songs, the cry of poets across time? Should it be enough to simply allow you to walk on, should unrequited love be enough?
May 28, 2007
Fish Creek Trek
Sitting in the restaurant I am certain that our stench is permeating the room. I don’t really care; it’s just something that occurs to me. The people seem unusually noisy, the clamor and rattle of voices and plates is overwhelming. We eat a small portion of the seemingly extra large meals we had ordered, and leave with haste as if the place was on fire. Back into the car for the rest of the journey home, things seem slightly more normal. At least it’s silent again. With no radio, just a little bit of conversation, and the dog still breathing heavily in the back seat. The words we speak center around the past four days, in a sense it keeps us where we wish we still were. Our epic journey, a trek into mountains that most people will never see, began around 2am on Friday, when we awoke from three hours rest and loaded our gear into the car. Two 50 pound packs, an eleven year old dog, and a thermos of strong coffee to get us going.
We thought it a grand undertaking at the start. Normally, a backpacking trip consists of a 7-8 mile hike in, a day of ‘rest’ hiking around without the packs on if there’s time, and then the same mileage out. This time we were to hike in 12 miles, from the trail head in Devil’s Postpile National Monument to Fish Creek Valley and the Iva Bell hot springs. My packing partner took care of the permits, and then found out that the gate that leads down to the Postpile and our trailhead were not going to be opened until the next day. We decided to go, hoping after numerous phone calls that someone would let us in, and deciding that if that wasn’t the case we’d just hike from the gate. Fortune didn’t smile on us that Friday morning; we had a speeding ticket on the drive down, and a locked gate upon arrival at 7am. We just added a minimum of 9 more miles to our trek, assuming we could get a ride up the road on our way out. Don’t worry though, we’re pretty tough. So, onward it was, and by the time we reached our trailhead and had a lunch break, exhaustion was already setting in. We went about 5 more miles before we were losing daylight, and decided that a 14 mile hike in on the first day was probably enough. We set up camp, ate a quick meal, and promptly passed out just as the sun disappeared.
Up at dawn the next day, we knew we had about 7 miles to go and we figured that we’d have plenty of time to set up camp, find the hot springs, soak and relax for a good part of the day. The scenery was amazing, and part of our conversation was extolling awe and respect for people like John Muir and Ansel Adams, for whom the wilderness areas we were in are named, true great mountaineers who lived and breathed this granite wonderland. Giant slabs of rock, wildflowers and waterfalls, the sweetest air I’ve breathed, and always the rhythm of the hike. We didn’t see a soul, and it was easy to think no one else had ever been here, and to wonder how this trail came to be. We walked away the chatter in our minds, we walked until there was nothing but walking and it felt strange not to have the packs on our backs, the sticks in our hands and the cadence of our steps. We missed the trail to our destination that second day, adding two miles to our journey. When we realized the mistake and turned back, we reached our final river crossing with the campsite visible on the other side. Only there was no crossing over the river. It wasn’t deep, just about mid-calf, and the current wasn’t too strong, though to me it looked like class 4 rapids. Having been pulled out of a river once before and knowing what it is to almost drown in one, fear set in for the first and last time on this journey. Toughness faded, I succumbed to fear, and tears cleaned my filthy face. My companion, and one of my closest friends, once again proved to me that he is one of the best people out there. He suggested that he cross it to see how it is, and check the best way, and that he’d bring his pack over just in case. Off with the boots and socks and across the river with both our walking sticks he went. He made it, of course, and returned. I knew I could get across, I knew it wasn’t that bad of a crossing, I just couldn’t shake the panic. So, he took my pack, went a different route, crossed and came back again. He then gave me both sticks, and staying right behind me the whole way, walked me through step by step to the other side, then went back again and brought my dog over. The next morning, with the water even colder, he did the same. I’m pretty sure that there is a medal or something out there which should be given to him, and if I find it, I’ll make sure he gets it. Everyone should have a friend like that, and I’m thankful every day that he is mine. We set up camp that night and were so exhausted that after a scout of the immediate area turned up nothing, we gave up our quest for the hot springs. The next day was another early morning with another long trek ahead of us, so we packed up and left the Fish Creek Valley. On our way out that day, a man passed us, also a backpacker. We stopped and chatted for a bit, found out that he had been at the springs, and that we were basically right there. We told him of our long journey and how we had been too tired the night before to look around for them anymore. Our pride diminished slightly when he told us he had been out for 16 days, and he looked to be about 50-60 years old. The rest of that days hike we spent figuring out what he carried, as his pack was small and much lighter than ours. With much respect for this man, we decided we had better keep practicing so that we could be that good in 30 years. Another night at the same camp as the first night, and a shorter hike out the last day finished our trip. We got a ride up the road from a nice guy with a pick-up, and with around 36 miles under our belts in four days, felt pretty good about the whole adventure. In the end one thing is for certain, and it’s what I already knew; that the mountains hold my soul as sure as my companion holds a chunk of my heart.
We thought it a grand undertaking at the start. Normally, a backpacking trip consists of a 7-8 mile hike in, a day of ‘rest’ hiking around without the packs on if there’s time, and then the same mileage out. This time we were to hike in 12 miles, from the trail head in Devil’s Postpile National Monument to Fish Creek Valley and the Iva Bell hot springs. My packing partner took care of the permits, and then found out that the gate that leads down to the Postpile and our trailhead were not going to be opened until the next day. We decided to go, hoping after numerous phone calls that someone would let us in, and deciding that if that wasn’t the case we’d just hike from the gate. Fortune didn’t smile on us that Friday morning; we had a speeding ticket on the drive down, and a locked gate upon arrival at 7am. We just added a minimum of 9 more miles to our trek, assuming we could get a ride up the road on our way out. Don’t worry though, we’re pretty tough. So, onward it was, and by the time we reached our trailhead and had a lunch break, exhaustion was already setting in. We went about 5 more miles before we were losing daylight, and decided that a 14 mile hike in on the first day was probably enough. We set up camp, ate a quick meal, and promptly passed out just as the sun disappeared.
Up at dawn the next day, we knew we had about 7 miles to go and we figured that we’d have plenty of time to set up camp, find the hot springs, soak and relax for a good part of the day. The scenery was amazing, and part of our conversation was extolling awe and respect for people like John Muir and Ansel Adams, for whom the wilderness areas we were in are named, true great mountaineers who lived and breathed this granite wonderland. Giant slabs of rock, wildflowers and waterfalls, the sweetest air I’ve breathed, and always the rhythm of the hike. We didn’t see a soul, and it was easy to think no one else had ever been here, and to wonder how this trail came to be. We walked away the chatter in our minds, we walked until there was nothing but walking and it felt strange not to have the packs on our backs, the sticks in our hands and the cadence of our steps. We missed the trail to our destination that second day, adding two miles to our journey. When we realized the mistake and turned back, we reached our final river crossing with the campsite visible on the other side. Only there was no crossing over the river. It wasn’t deep, just about mid-calf, and the current wasn’t too strong, though to me it looked like class 4 rapids. Having been pulled out of a river once before and knowing what it is to almost drown in one, fear set in for the first and last time on this journey. Toughness faded, I succumbed to fear, and tears cleaned my filthy face. My companion, and one of my closest friends, once again proved to me that he is one of the best people out there. He suggested that he cross it to see how it is, and check the best way, and that he’d bring his pack over just in case. Off with the boots and socks and across the river with both our walking sticks he went. He made it, of course, and returned. I knew I could get across, I knew it wasn’t that bad of a crossing, I just couldn’t shake the panic. So, he took my pack, went a different route, crossed and came back again. He then gave me both sticks, and staying right behind me the whole way, walked me through step by step to the other side, then went back again and brought my dog over. The next morning, with the water even colder, he did the same. I’m pretty sure that there is a medal or something out there which should be given to him, and if I find it, I’ll make sure he gets it. Everyone should have a friend like that, and I’m thankful every day that he is mine. We set up camp that night and were so exhausted that after a scout of the immediate area turned up nothing, we gave up our quest for the hot springs. The next day was another early morning with another long trek ahead of us, so we packed up and left the Fish Creek Valley. On our way out that day, a man passed us, also a backpacker. We stopped and chatted for a bit, found out that he had been at the springs, and that we were basically right there. We told him of our long journey and how we had been too tired the night before to look around for them anymore. Our pride diminished slightly when he told us he had been out for 16 days, and he looked to be about 50-60 years old. The rest of that days hike we spent figuring out what he carried, as his pack was small and much lighter than ours. With much respect for this man, we decided we had better keep practicing so that we could be that good in 30 years. Another night at the same camp as the first night, and a shorter hike out the last day finished our trip. We got a ride up the road from a nice guy with a pick-up, and with around 36 miles under our belts in four days, felt pretty good about the whole adventure. In the end one thing is for certain, and it’s what I already knew; that the mountains hold my soul as sure as my companion holds a chunk of my heart.
May 2, 2007
Hurricane
I remember morning in your tent
Your hands in my hair
We were not so innocent
The sun rising over a clear blue lake
This feeling inside me, it was something like fate
And you
Move through me
Soft, like a hurricane
And I am on my knees
Wanting you back again
All this fear, but I am brave
I'll stand again
And call your name
Because I remember my first night with you
It was underneath Mars, and a half filled moon
It was late September and it was then I knew
I could spend a lifetime loving you
And you
Move through me
Soft, like a hurricane
And I am on my knees
Wanting you back, again.
May 1, 2007
Desire
I was going to wait.
Then, I was going to call.
Now I've decided to write, to afford you the opportunity to think before you respond, or to not respond at all...or for myself to rescind. So here it is; I am lying in my bed, window open on my second story with cool air teasing my skin. I'm thinking that last night we kissed and lips I've known for thirty years became suddenly full, soft. I breathed you in for a moment, heart shaking, knees pounding and then gone. Driving away, I wondered if I should have stayed. Instead deciding to wait and see if this feeling would just go away. Is it the same fire lightning of firsts, or could it sustain? I let my stomach continue on its nervous rant and stayed on the ride a bit longer. Keeping rationality at bay for the moment didn't seem overly indulgent. So I drove through the trees and night dreamed scenes with you.
Oh, the beauty of being a woman. The tingle that starts down beneath becomes electricity in all directions. The flutter of skin, the numbness of lips, staggered breath and a seeming loss of skeleton. We become overcome in our own thoughts, a dangerous place that begs to linger.
One day, two...how long should my patience extend? I've no idea the rate feelings must dissipate to prove lust. I suppose at some point you just know and it lives inside of you. It is two days now. My fingers stretch and recoil, quiver, and try again. Yet I hesitate and will not dial your name. What would I say?
Then, I was going to call.
Now I've decided to write, to afford you the opportunity to think before you respond, or to not respond at all...or for myself to rescind. So here it is; I am lying in my bed, window open on my second story with cool air teasing my skin. I'm thinking that last night we kissed and lips I've known for thirty years became suddenly full, soft. I breathed you in for a moment, heart shaking, knees pounding and then gone. Driving away, I wondered if I should have stayed. Instead deciding to wait and see if this feeling would just go away. Is it the same fire lightning of firsts, or could it sustain? I let my stomach continue on its nervous rant and stayed on the ride a bit longer. Keeping rationality at bay for the moment didn't seem overly indulgent. So I drove through the trees and night dreamed scenes with you.
Oh, the beauty of being a woman. The tingle that starts down beneath becomes electricity in all directions. The flutter of skin, the numbness of lips, staggered breath and a seeming loss of skeleton. We become overcome in our own thoughts, a dangerous place that begs to linger.
One day, two...how long should my patience extend? I've no idea the rate feelings must dissipate to prove lust. I suppose at some point you just know and it lives inside of you. It is two days now. My fingers stretch and recoil, quiver, and try again. Yet I hesitate and will not dial your name. What would I say?
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