LE CONTE TREK 10/26/94

Strap on your old boots
your parka and your binocs too.
Grab compass and those off-trail maps,
a first-aid kit for measure.
Load up with trail snacks.
Put on your back pack
We're off to climb Le Conte again.
Today our time's permitting.
 
Come with friends or by yourself.
Experience to share or ponder.
We climb you to forget;
or, simply to remember—
Mt. Permanent, God's viewing place,
adorned in Nature's splendor.
 
Trails enough allow ascent.
We choose one of our favorites.
And press first step in level soil,
beginning yet another toil.
We set off heavy laden yet
the baggage of our day in tow.
 
What sound is that which first we hear?
An ovenbird or wren content
announcing our arrival.
Allow a selfish thought if dare:
these birds chant specially for me
a welcome to their Sanctuary.
 
Along the brook of rocks worn smooth
the crystal waters passing.
We barely notice trout below
eye caught by feathered beauty flow.
Flycatcher's darting swoop to nab
a pesky bug above our heads.
 
Our backyard this is not
but lush rain forest standing.
And moisture beads the lacy spider webs
stretch cross our path ahead.
The misty morning wets our brows
to mix with fresh sweat starting.
Elevations change as muscles work.
Our bodies start to get the hint:
climbing Mt. Le Conte, we know,
is not for the faint-hearted.
 
We reach first fork to tempt our will.
Left is Duck Hawk; right is Arch Rock.
It matters not the path we choose
for either will suffice.
Our clocks reversed we place ourselves
amid all other climbs we've made,
a flowing mix of past and present.
 
And here is where it starts.
We sense the perfect harmony
our song will not disturb.
We are both warned and welcomed here.
This ecosystem needs us not
yet tolerates our passing.
 
This precious gift for now is ours
Let us make the most of it.
We trod upon its face once more,
but finite are our markings.
The sacrilege profane men make
this Mountain will quite soon forget,
along with each of us.
Yet, I sense a lushness lost
as boot-steps rip the mossy top
to bare black soil, the root and rock.
 
Smell of alum throws me face-to-face
with visions of my lad-like self
Where as a boy I scampered round
with purpose raise the pungent dust,
to test my parents' tolerance.
Dare gaze I at my Brother's face
or that of Mother, Father?
Cave Bluff bids steeper paths to come
and deeper memories to bring.
 
All seasons mix
in gasps for thin air heavy breathing.
I find myself in fallen colored leaves
a mix with petals in the path...
azalea, laurel, rhododendron.
Crampons bite the icy trail,
and heavy snow tops gaiters.
Both hot and cold am I as climb goes on
The black mud smoothes the rocky trail
as vistas beckon just ahead—
weather holding, clouds permitting. 

Change comes quickly now
above the tree line, laurel slick.
And wind begins to redden skin
A patch of frost  beneath my boot.
A deer in distance moves away.
Small buntings dart from heath and heather.
 
Hang to the cable, footing slick.
Glimpse down the cliff if brave,
the perfect lookout not to miss.
The forest clearly flaming now
in crimson, orange, and yellow.
And as we round a treeless part
first view I see of Mountain's top.
Anticipation draws me on
as through the hemlocks sunlight sneaks.
 
Time's no longer consequence
I greet some downward hikers.
Their faces show me pure content.
Good wishes spill from smiling lips.
And now I feel the prize to come.
We hear the top is very clear.
 
The climb's last turn lies just ahead.
A wind sweeps strongly now.
We scamper to protected part
where path is strangely tunneled.
Dense firs in rows line far ahead;
our trail returns to level.
 
—This is the part where I permit
myself to think of future once.
To come is sunset, rest and food.
Cliff-Top will mix a true pink sky
with azure, mauve and violet.
Tomorrow to bring an early light
at Myrtle Point our day will start.
Watch wind-blown clouds come surfing low
colliding with the craggy rock.
 
Will views allowed be quite the same
of pioneer and Cherokee?
 
A trip too short.
Descent to start.
Sore thighs and toes to come.
And thoughts of off-trail trekking stop
as memory of laurel thick
mix bramble, thorn and rattlesnake,
reminding me my mortal state.
 
Catalog another trek,
time's integral computed.
Record it in your secret place
to cherish and to recollect.
Le Conte's treks number far too few.
The energy well spent, I smile—
Soul healed; the mind and heart restored,
each to their proper socket.