PINKHAM NOTCH: SEPTEMBER 2015
It hurts my heart when I discern
Our flaming maples brown-edged and sere
At that ebullient time of year
That brings the tourists to our region.
And birches’ withered yellow leaves
Are curled and dropping from the trees
Depressing my spirits seriously.
The Appalachians I have loved,
Famed for fall foliage brilliance,
May not deserve a second glance
Without their scarlet Redcoats.
I’m glad I won’t be here to read
That chapter in their history.
MOUNTAIN TOP EXPERIENCE
We have clickity clacked to the misty summit
Of New England’s tallest weather-wracked peak,
Cog after cog dropping into their sockets,
I accompanied by my kids and their kids
(Hoping we won’t slide back to our doom).
At the age of ten I first ascended the trail
That ran from the railroad base to the Lake
Of the Clouds to the tip-top and down the Jewel,
My mother in sneakers and black print dress
(The last ascent my parents tried).
But I got to know Mt. Washington well:
Repairing cairns in the Alpine Meadows,
Boulder-hopping down Huntington Ravine,
Traversing to Madison Hut and back,
And watching skiers bolt down Tuckermann’s.
I have grown fond of the ancient rock pile.
It was good to re-visit an old friend.
Springtime in the Notches
We should have known what April fools
This winter was to make of us.
It piled the snow up to our roofs
While Arctic winds assaulted us.
We looked in vain for signs of spring,
For daffodils and crocuses,
But now in May it’s happening:
The woods are where the action is.
Below these west-wind-blocking cliffs
Beneath their blanket of dry leaves
Shy yellow violets persist
And Dutchman’s breeches are perceived.
Where phoebes and song sparrows peck
The squirrel corn plants its fruity roots.
Wake robin trillium are on deck.
Hepatica promises liver cures.
Dogtooth violets belie their name.
Spring beauties herald what has come
At last, unnoticed, unproclaimed,
Our longed-for time of procreation.
Why do I spend my weekends in the Whites?
I find some consolation in their heights
To blunt the grief that haunts my lowland days,
Inspire me to set out on new assays.
Those alabaster presidential peaks
Outshine a million cities’ neon gleams.
Chocorua’s guardian ridge and craggy brow
Look down benevolently on our town.
Not far from here I loved and was well loved
And in these parts my ancestors once throve.
Since childhood I have trekked these beckoning hills.
Something there is that calls me to them still.
When I no longer reach the summit views,
Walks on these valley trails will also do.
TIMING IS EVERYTHING
In April, driving north on Route Sixteen,
You top a hill just south of Ossipee
And in your face arise the peaks and flanks
Of Washington and the Presidential Range.
Fiercely white, they reign over the horizon,
An awesome sight you want to keep your eyes on.
But you go on and Chocorua hoves into view,
Clothed with his Sisters in somewhat mottled hues,
And they call out for climbing, but you know
The trails will still be treacherous with snow.
Black ice will subtly coat the shaded rocks,
And slow going may find you still on top
When shadows coalesce around your feet,
The sun beating an all-too-fast retreat.
Some shining prospects should be kept in sight
Until the time for venturing is just right.
(April 2014)
RELUCTANCE
How can I bear to think
That one day I will not see
Chocorua’s winter-white peak
And the Three Sisters Ridge,
That one year without my note
Pine limbs will bend low
And birches make their bows
Under the weight of snow,
That I will not add my tracks
To those of the snow-shoe hare,
The single-footing fox
And the high-bounding deer
While ice particles chime
In the breath of the winter wind
And cardinals still proclaim
Their expectations of spring?
(February, 2014)
LAMENT
Where and when did it begin,
This call to me of the wild?
Was it the chatter of tanagers
Flitting in Amesbury pines
Waking a six-year-old child,
Or was it the dip and dip
Of my parents’ canoe paddles
In the Powow River north
Of camp on Tuxbury Pond,
Or when I looked up at trees
And hooked my hand on the smooth
Bark of birch and aspen
As I struggled up Mt. Chocorua?
Later I came to mourn
The hurricane’s blast, the pines
Strewn like tangled match sticks,
The scarlet tanagers gone.
Today as an octogenarian
It drives me wild to see
Our maples migrating to Canada,
Our Great Bay rank with algy.
DEER CROSSING THE ICE
Wood nymphs frisking on the frozen lake,
I see them as I ski around the bend.
They could be leading Pan a merry chase,
Curvetting to a fanfare of March wind.
I yearn to join them on the silver stage
With sunlit birch and cedar scenery,
Lift and bend in an ecstacy of grace,
Dance to the pulsing universal heartbeat.
As David danced at the altar of the Lord,
As wavelets dance on the bosom of the land,
Jete on the wind, the bold leap forward,
Bow and retreat as birches learn to bend.
Hooves and tails melt on a wooded isle.
I blink to clear the water from my eyes.
THERAPY
The pain is IT. Her gambit
Is to hide as in childhood games.
She fills her pack with gear
And takes to hills where mountain
Ashes drop their scarlet tears
On the trail. She pulls herself
By friendly birchbark handholds
Up over barrier ledges.
She sucks in air until
The fist within her diaphragm
Unclenches, leaving her
Seared and hollow as a
Redwood drilled by lightning.
The final sprint to the height
Of land is an epiphany.
REPAIRING CAIRNS ON MT. WASHINGTON
We are constructing castles
Of stone on an alpine meadow.
Sunlight rich as butter
Ignites mica in granite.
High and small, blue-black
Ravens waft past.
Drinking champagne air
We scan sparse grasses
For large but liftable boulders,
Glacier-dropped chips
Off the old mountain block
No longer Himalayan high.
A Cheshire mason’s son
Ad-libs British quips
As we stagger back, arms
Stretched, strapping stones
Against our thighs like refrigerators
Belted to dollies. He drops
The rocks in their sockets
Just so, broad, level and sturdy
Enough to hold up the upper
Stories. The pyramid reaches
Its peak. He bounds on top.
Kodaks capture the moment.
Once in Peru on the hills
Above Lake Titicaca we saw
Such chimneys of fieldstone
But rounder on top and taller:
Local dignitaries’ towers,
Wolf-proof bone repositories
Rippled by sere sedges,
Pre-Incan time capsules
We chose not to open,
Landmarks on the hard-packed
Pathway to Elyssian fields
We were not prepared to follow.
Our cairns today escalate
Our spirits on our high way
And lead us to the blustery summit,
Blistered but lighthearted,
Knowing that some fogbound,
Windswept, rain-driven hiker
Will hunker down behind them,
Lay on thankful hands,
Peer cloudily from marker to marker,
And whistle as he descends
To sheltering evergreen hedges
And the canopy of oak and birch.
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.
WINTER BACKPACK
Tentative fingers of dry sleet
Tap on our cheeks in the twilight.
We tie our tents to tree limbs
And cook by lantern light.
White moths tick on nylon.
We sleep away the dark
And wake to clarion sunshine
Domed by cobalt glass.
Our snowshoes write our thoughts
On unmarked pages twined
With notes of hooves and paws.
But when we pause for breath
And look up, we are skylarks
In a silvery-netted aviary,
By blueness mesmerized.
On the ridge we become giants,
Our heads level with rows
Of crystal-coated bonsai
And balsam bowed by snow.
Floundering down the mountain,
Our big feet swallowed in drifts,
We marvel at undulations,
Tide ripples sculpted by winds
Which roar that night down the valley,
Express trains passing our camp,
Reminding us of Himalayan
Climbers marooned in tents.
But these winds are siroccan:
They black out cities of stars
And brew a broth of fine rain
By the time we reach our cars.