Alone, Moose Mountain

 

Alone, Moose Mountain

Foolishly alone
he climbs into clouds.
He snaps branches, cleaves cobwebs
to reawaken an abandoned path
found on a faded map,
first footprints to this loam in years.

A final, steep scramble up rocks.
Clouds lift. Atop Moose Mountain
a brilliant view, shared: perched on a spar,  
an alert falcon. Companion.

The descent, again no escort.
Crossing a creek, he hops to a
green rock algae-slick — and upends
flipping like a pinwheel so fast
there’s no time for hands, for reflex.
Jaw slams against boulder.

A moment, stunned.
He's in cold water, soaked.
Stars spin across eyes.
He springs up to scream at nobody,
the gods, the cussed green rock.
But can’t scream—jaw too sore.
Where's the hat? The camera?
He stumbles down the creek, spies the Nikon,
and slips again. Crashes. Aargh!  

He's too tired, too wet,
too banged up and crazy with pain.
Farewell, beloved Tilley hat.
Socks squish inside boots. Jaw throbs.
Arm, shoulder, stabs of heat.

A doctor purses her lips saying
"You're crazy, hiking solo where nobody
would find you. You almost broke your jaw.
And didn't it occur to you," she asks
shaking her head, "you dislocated your shoulder?"
She pops it into place.

Above Moose Mountain,
alone, a falcon soars.

……

First published in Peacock Journal
Note: Yeah, it’s about me. At age 60-something I set out to explore rough country alone. This particular Moose Mountain is in the Adirondacks of New York State and was seldom hiked by anybody back then. The camera was ruined, photo film got soaked in the creek when I fell, but this picture I salvaged—falcon’s world.