Snake Creek

Tired body aches. Long walk on starry night - ears attuned for bear at creek, or cougar. Nothing, not a doe. But that afternoon came upon a healthy young buck in a meadow. High up. And a hawk left a feather for me. Old, old stands of lodgepole pine, grey bark like wrinkled hides of elephants. Thick carpet of dead needles. Thirst. Sit at snowbank for an hour eating snow. Burn tongue. To soon after stumble upon a pond and the place that a creek springs from the mountain. Water indescribable. Eat ravenously and drink deep gulps. Climb highest rocky peak at dusk. Razor-back ridge. Mother hawk scream nearby. Must backtrack and then go straight down near dark feet fall through layers of scrub pine, hands grab for the live stalks only support against broken bone. Choose steep narrow bed of loose rocks, surely waterfall in some other season and descend on ass and all fours, feet first always fearful it will end in an uncontrollable hundred foot drop. Trickles of water nearing bottom. Cracked hands, raw behind, cross final snowbank and attain road along Snake Creek.