By David Swanson
The red and black rucksack bought secondhand
by my father for our first hiking trip
carries my sleeping bag and sweater,
the apple cinnamon oatmeal we cook at first light
and the box of red wine sipped just before bed.
It carries the 6am wake-ups and the metallic scent
of my friend’s pickup and the dried dirt of last summer’s
final back country night – blue, yellow and purple
wild flowers that resemble small chimpanzee-faced daffodils.
Sunrises over slanted ground and distant
giant Christmas trees that look older than sound.
Walking up the rock face, a 50 foot drop below,
minor slides beneath shaky hands all leathered
from altitude cold and the fear of all the growing feet,
My hands hoist adrenaline legs gripping polished branches
held by all the people that made sure they reached the next tree.
The final glacial viewpoint found through the fog, before September’s
first hail and snowfall – the black mountain spire in the shape
of a hound’s tooth was the perfect spot
for hot tea and honey comb sweets,
before glow-in-the-dark glass daggers and rock slides echoed in the valley
during a wooden mattress sleep.
It’s all enough to make me miss my dad when I reach the top.
He didn’t come this time because he can no longer climb tall and steep.
