Hiker Dude

Hiker Dude Commander of the view of the curving earth the Piñon stands a-grip a forest of boulders, jagged giants, held in place by her, a part of her, at her bidding. The lone hiker dude, grasps the piñon to haul himself up. Sweat freezing in a wicked wind. He extends his soul to the mountains beyond, to the curving sky, to the air and the feel of the sun. This is the view, the pay-off. Ridges stud the valley below like waves on some restless sea, up to the giant peaks where the spirits live. A pair of ravens gurgle above him, from the rocks he's yet to climb. He sighs. The rest time is finished. The spirits are put away for now. This terrain demands attention to detail, lungs and legs working together: a samba. Monstrous and preposterous. He smiles. His muscles feel good. They bend and flow willingly with the jagged land. The ravens play hopscotch ahead, rising and plummeting with the wind, mocking the strange ape below. A pair of butterflies rise and fall like drops of water in a giant fountain: flapping up plummeting down over and over. He's been tracking some deer for a while but the soil has lost to the rocks, each one a stunning testament to entropy that has to be climbed over or wedged around (or both). Mounds of cactus, stands of manzanita, fallen piñon, yucca. They command our respect. They are far tougher than we. Up and up he climbs cussing the ravens who started circling him. Loving the company. A bit of flat. A bit of sand in the shade of the final cliff. Cat tracks moulded in the damp sand. Fresh too. Must like the view here. The cliff is easy to climb and finally the top. Howling wind nearly knocks him down. So, the lone hiker dude hunkers low and recites the names of the peaks in the distance as he eats his lunch.