(Hiking Up and Over 3500 Feet-Wittenberg and Cornell, Two More Catskill High Peaks)
It occurs to me
That I require a principle
To summit these peaks. Something more than a patch.
My tenacity shouts above my perception
Shooting over the trees
Soliciting the breeze
Questioning my knees
As the goal sticks out its tongue and then darts
Off like a chipmunk to peek back at me from
The enduring rocks and ledges that loom ahead.
My companions and I
Pray to a silent God
Mindful of our mission
And that our bodies not
Fail us, at least, not today.
The round red footpath signs
Point diagonally ahead,
Tree to tree towards
The relentless uphill, and my breathless
Scramble over the ledges to come.
The reward is still sketchy
After three hours in;
When I am eager to drink in the summit.
Finally, the dark path brightens.
And I bow to the chipmunk in an
Attempt to feed it an organic non-GMO potato chip.
It darts instead behind a bush,
Then shows me its tail and informs me to eat
But not to get too comfortable.
We have another mountain to bag.
Notified later
By our fearless leader
That I will have to climb down
for another mile before my next ascent
Progressing first to the infamous
Cornell Crack, where
Mistakes in either direction
Will not be tolerated.
The Purple ribbon and I
Contemplating our virgin review.
My knees hiss a warning, which I promptly ignore.
They vow to render their discourse later
During our descent, as they rant about where
I place my feet, and how to steady my stride,
Harping on the path less taken, which will
Come at a precipitous price.
The brilliant sun pierces the canopy,
As before us, another ledge emerges
Another feat to capture
As the epic continues to unfold.
We descend past yet another group of
Masked climbers at three p.m.
Still on their ascent with their two children,
An infant is strapped to its mother
And the three-year-old is
Proclaiming, then bawling
Over the never-ending mountain ahead,
His father is a tongueless robot,
Their progress momentarily halted to let us pass.
There are miles to go in either direction.
The smug star
Reclines in the west
Pointing at loose rocks,
Protruding roots
Our heel-toe-heel cautious descent,
My hiking poles that catch
Between soft earth and a hard place
Slowing my forward motion
Tipping my resolve.
My reserve is approaching empty.
The chipmunk scampering ahead
Turns to salute me as our lumbering steps
Steer us back to our chariots in
The near-empty lot
To untie shoelaces
Remove mud-caked boots
Release tired toes
From their dark prisons
Slip on our winged sandals to
Toast our victory at the evening feast.
Corney Press 