Twelve Mile

twelve miles of useless... road if you want to call it that so washed out, rutted, and rocky that usually you drive around it three beers to go such a tiny distance hay meadows across the creek always teaming with deer so incredibly flat, those fields give you hope that the world can be restored to some semblance of order after the twists, turns and tilts jolting you every which way rocks tumbling down on it every day lurking for oil pans and tires idiot's reward to be stranded miles from civilization with no cellphone service and no ranch house to bother "if you don't know what you're doing stay off roads like this" a sign to that effect greets you at the very beginning you don't even have to read to understand its in symbols indicating high clearance required and steep grades to climb but who reads the signs funny how my grand-kids always swear "grandpa's trying to kill us." every time we go four wheeling (or snow drifting) but once reached, they love the destinations twelve mile is the best, and I wish on this cold November day, I had never moved away it's where I need to be today if you make it over the treacherous hills and through the bottomless dells you drop right into the creek where the moon ripples on gently tumbling water sometimes as deep as fender wells steam rises from it like smoke in bouncing yellow headlight beams last part is scary deep climbs a steep bank to get out of the water if you try to avoid it, big alligators you can't see * will shear your undercarriage and pop your tires you just have to go hard bang over that little cliff and up the last rise where granite spreads out flat like marble and there are three natural bowls hallowed out by--who knows ancient glaciers? mystery to me but a burning spring from the canyon wall feeds the pools nestled against the cliffs... the first one is the hottest you can feel the heat flowing from its source too hot for tender skin but well suited for my old leather I languish there for hours, often alone basting my aching bones and tired spirit in restorative heat eagles nest further up you hear their shrill cries, but really--nothing else a few chipmunks skitter by looking for picnickers' crumbs but it is mostly me, the trees and the tender wind up to my neck in nature's luxury today, I lie here with a sore throat, bone chills and fever in need of a good soak, and I'm tempted to get in my truck and drive a thousand miles but this is as close to making that journey as I'll get that was home, this is home, and the r.v. is home, too home's so big to me, I don't have one alligators are jagged rocks