I breathlessly snort thick green tree pollen
during the first fifteen-minute uphill climb
it floods behind my red, itchy eyes,
then duck dives and settles into the back of my throat.
Later, I cover my cough, sneeze, and cough again
while my companion regales me
with their dissertation on trees, biology,
and the path less taken.
We follow the sun, single file
to the top of the hill,
until the trail levels off.
Suck in oxygen, share a personal tale
with the closest fellow tree hugger
as if every nanosecond
would be carefully dissected and filed
for future reference.
Then we gulp down our water.
Our practiced feet marching, heel-toe-heel,
to the beat of a muted drum.
No one is left behind.
As we reach the divide,
the young and steady decide to scramble,
as others choose to walk around.
We will meet them again at the summit.
The rocks and crevices ahead will challenge us.
The consequences of missteps are significant.
Sweat is mopped from brows
as ten of us grasp narrow sandstone ledges,
inch past giant boulders,
squeeze through small crevices with tiny footholds
while following bright red arrows
emblazoned into the conglomerate,
signifying the route to the top of the Crag.
Our smiles firmly planted while we witness the epic again recorded in iPhone panorama.
It is eleven-thirty on a Wednesday. Two hours in.
Time to remove our backpacks,
dangle legs from cliff ledges,
snack on fruit and nuts
our centers grounded in the earth,
And the progress of the star.
My breath no longer labored
when our eighty-something-year-old leader
points to her watch and signals five more minutes.
And I stomp down on a stinkbug marching along the rock face
crushing its tiny body, releasing the odor of a skunk.
And the spell is broken.
A footnote in the journey
as we trek single file past the dwarf brush pine.
1/24/26
Corney Press 