Archive
01/01/10 - (3)
Off Lorber Point
Knowing the sun will set one minute before 4:30, I tighten my snowshoes' lacings, grasp my ski pole, And enter the woods, by Camp Nebagamon's back gate,
Take to the road, pass the Lumberjack Village cabins, Veer left at the Herb Hollinger Museum, And head through the pine forest, toward Lorber Point,
Trudging over knee-deep snow, In the face of the rapidly descending, blazing fireball. Drawing near, I begin tearing fiercely.
It's the wind, this ferocious New Year's Day wind, Whipping my eyes, punishing them unremittingly, Causing them to distort the trees into blurry surrealities.
In desperation, I turn away from the blasting air, Follow Spitting Spring Trail maybe a hundred yards, Hoping to see day dissolve into its mellow twilight pastels.
Then, unexpectedly, my snowshoes become divining rods, Guiding me off the narrow, labyrinthine path, Through bare, brittle, brown underbrush, down to the shore.
What, minutes ago, was a half-degree-above-zero chill Is, now, out on the lake's frozen, snow-gessoed surface, A blistering fifteen to twenty below.
Although snowshoeing is far less effort to sustain, out here, The gusts, penetrating my gloves, boots, neck gaiter, Striking at my fingers, toes, lips, nose, eyes, are painful.
Nonetheless, I stop, gaze just above Minnesuing Creek, As the flaming orb disappears, with a silent flourish, Its roses, oranges, purples, mauves leaching across the sky.
For endless seconds, my flesh, bones, senses aren't mine; They're impervious to the murderous cold. My blood runs hot, As though the last of the sun's rays are racing through my veins.
Hearing the lake moaning deep within the ice's soul, As if it were empathizing with my puny humanity, I know, in these mortal moments, what it's like to be eternal.
01/01/10 - (3)
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