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03/17/10 - (2)
Climbing Stony Hill
Incredibly, it's yet another sixty-degree afternoon — An end-of-winter Wednesday that should be in the twenties. The sun's beaming down on the Bois Brule State Forest, And I'm wearing just jeans, boots, and a fleece jacket — The only hiker in this reach of these secluded woods.
That, five days ago, these precincts were snow-choked Seems as unlikely as a dialogue between granite boulders. But here I am, following this soggy path, Weaving up the backside of a glacially formed elevation, Undulating through a robust stand of jack, red, and white pines Interlaced with birches, ashes, yellow basswoods, And, like battlefield corpses, in scattered, decaying disarray, Myriad tree trunks covered with beaming-green moss.
Though completely alone, I'm neither lost nor afraid, Rather euphoric, my flesh, muscles, and bones alive. The 184-foot climb through the labyrinth I follow, Stopping, periodically, to listen to giddy volleys of chickadees, The crazy cawings of crows, the silence of circling eagles, hawks, Finally brings me to the apogee, Where I walk between each of four cement foundations That once supported the ranger station's fire tower;
A brass plaque, embedded in a stone block, gives up its history: "1934. / Elevation above sea level 1181 feet / Stony Hill." Suddenly, I'm certain the husky boy who yet breathes in me Climbed to the top of this now-nonexistent structure When he was no more than ten or eleven, nearly six decades ago, And I can still recall the thrill of ascending that lookout's stairs, Peering over the valley, hoping to locate and report smoke.
As I descend the front face of the hill, My legs, thighs, and hips strain against sheer gravity, Until, in a rush of exuberance, two hours after entering the forest, I reach the road leading down to the fast-thrusting Bois Brule And sit, recline on my back, beside its bank, Thankful for the tranquil cessation of exertion, Craving a deep sleep Or at least a ten-minute rest, to replenish my energy.
Gazing at the evergreens on the steep cliff across from me And at the clouds scudding above, I, at complete peace with this sacred day, Realize that no two of either have ever been the same, Just as every second of my life has been a different shape of me.
03/17/10 - (2)
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