Fifty pounds of bark chips on my pack board
Slant me forward, thumbs under shoulder straps,
Eyes fixed on last year’s beech leaf carpet
Softening the old lumber road that knifes
The Pemigewasset Wilderness like a tunnel of light
In an early death experience. My small companion
Carries over one third of her body weight.
Crossing rivers, we topple off stepping stones
And feel the icy mountain silver sluice
Our toes inside our socks inside our boots.
We’re loaded with fuel for a composting toilet
At Thirteen Falls campsite, five miles
Beyond the closest forest service road.
Balanced on half-log bog bridges,
We pause by a pond to look for moose. Another
Month and beavers, those flat-tailed engineers,
Will have submerged the trail. “Get psyched!”
Calls our leader: “Only three more miles to go!
Water break at the next bend of the river!”
By now we feel a boot-deep relationship
With Franconia Brook. We pop sourballs
And tramp on. Canada winds lift
Shingles on our leafy roof, leaking in sunlight
And puzzle pieces of blue sky. Esprit
Balloons us up the last rocky slope.
“Only two more football fields to cross!”
Our big black bear charges ahead,
Encouraging directives drifting in his wake.
“Right turn to the latrine, left to the falls!”
On sun-scoured New England granite
Recliners, we spread out our lunches and dip
Our water bottles in the crystal cascade,
As the stream glissades down glacial slaloms.
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