He packed his snacks with reckless cheer,
three pine-cones gone before first gear;
he zoomed uphill without a care~
this squirrel’s bound for mountain air.
He stopped to pose by every pine,
claimed each tall peak as “truly mine,”
took selfies with his windswept hair~
this squirrel’s bound for mountain air.
He chased a goat up rocky ground,
then waved at hikers all around;
the switchbacks spun him everywhere~
this squirrel’s bound for mountain air.
And when he reached the summit’s crest,
he puffed his chest and squeaked, “I’m blessed!”
then glided down with style to spare~
It starts with a map spread across
the kitchen table,
fingertips tracing the jagged contour lines
like a language only the heart can translate.
Some call it a hobby,
but you know the truth by the weight on your back-
and the contents in your pack.
It is a holy burden,
a physical manifestation of a need
to be smaller than the world but larger then
your imagination.
There is a fever
Qin the rhythm of the ascent,
the way the lungs burn in synchronicity with the calves.
You aren't just walking;
you are consuming the distance,
swallowing the switchbacks
until the trailhead is a memory
and the valley floor is a map you’ve outgrown.
Your boots have memorized
the texture of granite and root,
the specific crunch of shale under a desperate heel.
They say "obsessed" like it’s a cage,
but here, in the thin air where the trees give up,
it feels more like an opening.
You hunt the summit not for the view,
but for the moment the internal noise finally stops-
when the only sound left is the wind
stripping away everything you thought you were
until you are nothing but breath,
moving upward unable to-
turn back.
Whiskey road,
all alone,
here we go again/
Hitting switchbacks,
going too fast,
chasing down my sin/
Headlights crawl,
through the pouring rain,
to where the road gives out/
Glass eye’d stare,
same whispered prayers,
plunged deep into the black/
“How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains!” ~ naturalist John Muir
For my parents, one dog, and four boys,
after six hours of switchbacks with no break,
when majestic waters glitter turquoise,
there is no other beauty like Duck Lake.
Unseen pathways ahead are full
Of switchbacks and great ruts.
Should you get a foot entangled -
I can help you regain your steps.
None of the routes are easy;
There's no formidable plan.
I only know forward is the way
So I will follow behind.
Today is not new nor bright;
It hides a lot of middle ground.
I am the friend in your life
That brings some peace of mind
Yet death is deep and mysterious;
It's the Last Great Unknown.
That's what'll end our shared fates
And on we must walk alone.
The Paths
by Franklin Price
1/30/2016
Some paths you follow paved and wide
Where you may move with ease
To deviate from left to right
Much doing as you please
Negotiating sweeping curves
Can look around the bend
No trouble there that you can see
Not coming to an end
Then comes unpaved and narrow
Not many choices there
Switchbacks are imbedded
Proceed on the way with care
Cliffs are there imposing
Many dangers for a fall
Cling closely to the inside
Or don't go there at all
You may go with someone
Or you may go alone
As the leader or the follower
There are skills that you must hone
And as you travel on life's path
Decide yourself where you should trod
Make intelligent decisions
While you place your faith in God
Lacing up my hiking boots
A backpack full of supplies
Heading out on a new trail head
As the sun just starts to rise
Switchbacks up the mountain trail
Waterfalls at which I stop
Six thousand feet of elevation gain
Before I reach the top
Splash fresh water upon my face
Enjoy the flora along the trails
Rejuvenating my inner soul
This exhilaration never fails
Approach the apex of the mountain
As the sun reaches its summit in the sky
Looking over miles of God’s green earth
Puts a teardrop in my eye
I love each day I can spend this way
Enjoying life in this particular fashion
Hiking trails through the wilderness
Is my enriching passion
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