backpacking (for my dad)
on mornings like these, cool as desert nights
and moist as rainforest summers, the sun rises
slowly, creeping over the horizon and crowning
the world with golden rays, sending long shadows
dancing across the forest. the woods glisten
with dew and glow with a million sparkling
spiderwebs. the trees are so green on mornings
like these, so tall that the canopy reaches
for the clouds and never stops growing, swaying
in the breeze. song sparrows sing from
high perches and flit from branch to branch,
releasing their soulful melodies to the wind.
as the sun travels from east to west and morning
melts into noon, our hips ache and our feet pound
with every lumbering step, but there’s nothing
more beautiful than a field of wildflowers, or a
freshwater spring, or the top of the mountain,
a view of the world from within the cerulean sky.
we walk. we walk until our thighs groan and our
shoulders throb, every footstep sparking like a
new fire pushing us onward until camp. have you
ever seen a sunset over a pasture, rolling hills,
breeze whistling between tender blades of grass,
a whisper of peace in the darkness of an oncoming
night? on nights like these the world sparkles with
silver starlight, glancing down from celestial
bodies high above. if it’s dry we lie in our tent
and stare upwards at the moon and her companions,
the constellations, our faces sweat-soaked and
dirty, yet still smiling. as we slip into sleep,
I dream of katahdin, a thousand miles north,
and springer, a thousand miles south. and I dream
of smoky mountain fog and maine’s wild remoteness,
of rainy day radiance and glittering diamond sunshine,
of finally calling myself a 2000 miler, and
of summiting every mountain along the way with you.