It is spring on the calendar only,
the coolness of the early morning
remains steadfast, and the air viscous;
the heaviness of winter not yet expunged,
the hot Okanagan heat is rousing only
slowly from its hibernal solstice, as the
thick gloom of cloud rests ponderously
on the low mountains beyond the
cold darkness of the water below;
spring appears slow to reawaken and
balks at the remonstrations of mother nature
attempting to rouse its reluctant child.
A distant chorus of running water,
only just audible over the delicious silence,
mumbles in deep low-pitch tones from
behind a thousand feet of volcanic rock;
the peace arrested by the occasional car
that speeds along Westside Road below
undoubtedly carrying occupants to
destinations much less serene than this;
ahead, my companion re-directs my thoughts,
as two young mountain goats cavort
amongst the bush and fallen rock debris,
more surefooted in infancy than I will ever be.
Before us a staircase of rough milled lumber,
navigates the steep origins of the trail,
an aid to us infrequent urban hikers,
a reminder, like our path through life
we need support from others. Still
an oxygen debt soon confronts us
halting us halfway up the stairs;
the welcome respite permits thirsty eyes
to pan the mountainside: dense brush
gives way to grass and Ponderosa pines
stand intermittently, like sentries, guarding
the approach to this volcanic rock castle.
Charcoaled pines lay strewn near by, roasted
and ruined by the fire of twenty-eleven;
many, no most, of the pines show the signs,
each with a blackened side like a permanent
shadow that none can escape day or night
(fires have been prevalent here these years,
perhaps a man's sloppiness or mans' consequence);
these enlivened slopes carry the scars, the
attributes of life that is wondrous...dangerous
but never inconsequential, all important -
the complex ecology that persists despite
that man exists to confound the natural progress.
Soon spring will bring forth its beauty,
renewal on these barren yellowed slopes,
squat plants and tiny flowers will claim their place,
even now I spot the occasional water fly
hovering above the rock and hopelessly lost;
another step and a sudden flutter as an
unseen, unknown bird, can no longer tolerate
our presence; what awaits ahead for us,
we can only anticipate, the future is always
just beyond the horizon, near but uncertain,
and we continue, struggling onward, the
path occasionally plotted, but never easy.
Near the crest the sounds of rushing water,
more audible now, yet muted and distant still,
the promise of great things to come, to witness
(always the excitement of what is just ahead)
but for now look back from where we've passed,
to breathe, to survey, to behold, to comprehend,
and still to look back with some regret
and see countless paths that may have been,
some more difficult, but others less so,
nonetheless, question not, the path we took
was ours to claim and ours to share,
to discover together and unite our spirits.
We cross a peak and the sounds explode
igniting our senses as if we had come upon
a party in the night that rumbled some distance
down the block and as we pass a door opens
and the loudness escapes to batter us,
pulsing, throbbing, membranes vibrating
in head and soul. Inestimable tons of water
roaring through a narrow passage way
carved by the erosion over a supereon;
like life itself, rushing towards its end,
crashing against immovable outside forces
before plunging, finally, to be forgotten in the sea.
~gtk