Archive
12/30/09 - (6)
Snowshoeing, Late Afternoon
So much for the brisk-clip walks Of this past year's visits to Lake Nebagamon's village. Now, of necessity, my speed has measurably tapered To a tortoise's plodding, the flowing of glaciers. It's slow as she goes; the steadier the better.
I should know. It's my fifth hike into the woodland, And each occasion has been the education of a lifespan. The gray, snowy day doesn't penetrate my winter armor, Even as I enter deeper into the quiet beckoning, Lean forward, into every sinking, crunching step I take,
Passing landlocked boats, docks, Lumberjack cabins, Heading beyond the shrine, ball field, to the council ring, Where I stop to rest, pay homage to the totem pole, Focus on its nine symbolic images, A spread-winged eagle at the top, "1936" at the bottom.
Only my mind's eye can see the hidden firepit's design. The stark wooden benches Are occupied by twenty inches of accumulated drifts — Row upon row of campers and staff Gathered for a summer Sunday night's secular sacraments.
Soon, I'm by the tennis courts, then the Swamper cabins, Which, now that their green roofs are white (Matching the exact shade of their antique clapboard siding), Blend into the purlieus, through which I slip undetected, Even by my own keen vision. After an hour and a half, from beginning to finish, Unfatigued, indeed exhilarated and relaxed, I unstrap the lacings of my intricately webbed snowshoes And walk in my boots (no less slowly, for the ice underfoot), Marveling at having exited, into dusk, so revitalized.
12/30/09 - (6)
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