solitude

Solitude
just past sunrise I leave the parking area.
small loose rocks crunch beneath my boots.
my legs brush against the tall grass.
trail turns up the mountain at the fork.
small pebbles give way to small rocks
give way to little boulders
give way to big boulders
give way to near vertical rock faces.
I carefully search for footholds and finger holds
as I climb toward the top.
past scrub brush inching upward
I follow red blazes painted on the rock face.
hand over hand I reach the pinnacle
climb out onto a ledge and sit
dangling my legs over the edge.
a cold breeze swishes past.
trees sway in the valley below.
clouds hug the peaks along the distant horizon.
after an hour or so I scramble down the mountain
just in time to see the sunset.

Solitude
I wake with the rising sun
and build a fire in the open pit.
I warm by the blaze,
heat water for coffee and oatmeal.
I trek down the blue trail to an ice cold spring
to fill water bottles.
a doe wanders down to the stream.
I sit quietly and watch until she walks away.
I break camp and hit the trail;
twelve miles today along the ridge;
twenty-eight-pound pack;
destination green bells bald.
mountain laurel lines the trail.
the only sounds are my boots tracking
sierra cup clanging on a pack hook,
rhythmic breathing,
a breeze in the trees.
I break out the forest into the clear,
hoist down the pack and take a
long drink of lukewarm water.
I take off my boots and socks
and enjoy the grass on the bald.

sweet fern

The subtle power in perfume found
Nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned;
On Grecian shrine or Aztec mound
No censer idly burned.

That power the old-time worships knew,
The Corybantes' frenzied dance,
The Pythian priestess swooning through
The wonderland of trance.

And Nature holds, in wood and field,
Her thousand sunlit censers still;
To spells of flower and shrub we yield
Against or with our will.

I climbed a hill path strange and new
With slow feet, pausing at each turn;
A sudden waft of west wind blew
The breath of the sweet fern.

That fragrance from my vision swept
The alien landscape; in its stead,
Up fairer hills of youth I stepped,
As light of heart as tread.

I saw my boyhood's lakelet shine
Once more through rifts of woodland shade;
I knew my river's winding line
By morning mist betrayed.

With me June's freshness, lapsing brook,
Murmurs of leaf and bee, the call
Of birds, and one in voice and look
In keeping with them all.

A fern beside the way we went
She plucked, and, smiling, held it up,
While from her hand the wild, sweet scent
I drank as from a cup.

O potent witchery of smell!
The dust-dry leaves to life return,
And she who plucked them owns the spell
And lifts her ghostly fern.

Or sense or spirit? Who shall say
What touch the chord of memory thrills?
It passed, and left the August day
Ablaze on lonely hills.

John Greenleaf Whittier