The Sacred Bell

I call this piece creative non fiction. Some of it has been taken from my own personal experiences and other parts of it have been slightly fabricated and the names have been changed to protect those whom I write about.

Feelings of animosity begin to build about Lynn because of her no response no action- hiding out from me, leaving me one too many times to wonder what’s up. She promised to bring me the meditation bell from her shrine. I took that to mean a very deep loving generous gesture on her behalf. I thought of it as a sacred gift but she procrastinated too long giving it to me. I thought I must either take the humble approach and wait and wait and wait maybe forever as if it was never going to happen or I could take the assertive approach and question her about it. It wasn’t just the bell but other things as well, plans with her that always fell through because the bell was not ringing true. It seemed as though it had lost it’s meaning and sacredness. I was ringing my own bell and came to the realization that I had to communicate with her somehow so I composed a letter questioning her about the issues that had been lingering there in my mind for quite some time.

A week before I decided to compose the letter to Lynn I met Teresa out at Davis Nursery. I had only heard about her through my good friend Anne. As I entered the nursery I casually sought her out not even knowing what she looked like. There was a slender woman with graying brown hair and dark complexion like she spent a lot of time under the sun or maybe it was her heritage. She appeared to me a bit tense yet enjoying her work as she stood there sticking labels in the 4 inch pots of annuals. Then I heard another fellow worker call her Teresa and I knew that had to be her. Was she anything like I had envisioned? I asked myself. I hadn’t really formed an image in my mind of what she might look like. I proceeded on towards the perennials randomly picking out two crocosmias, two day lilies and two echinecha purple cone flowers. What else I was going to plant in the yard behind my house I had recently purchased I didn’t know. There were so many possibilities calling out to me in the splendid array of colors, oranges reds golds and violets but the most important factor was picking the right plant for the right place. What would do well in the full sun. Could I count on the back yard along the west fence to get the full afternoon sun? What should I plant in the shade garden directly behind the studio? Would the hosta and ferns do well there? But I needed some flowering colorful blooms in that area also. It was as difficult as trying to find the right woman. I could search the rest of my life trying to decide. The different women that entered my life came and went , some as fast as I met them, others became long time companions but I hadn’t had a lover in years and couldn’t even conceive of what it would be like to actually be in love with a woman again. I sat the crocosmias, the cone flowers, the day lilies and the hostas on the cart and gradually worked my way towards the front of the nursery, stopping to gander some more at the hydrangea. Maybe one would look good in the far north corner behind the garden shed but I decided to wait on it. Then there was the multicolored gazanias popping out at me for $.50 a pot. They were labeled annuals and all this time I thought they were perennials because I planted some one year and they came back the following year bigger and bushier than ever. I thought about Lynn how she was like a slow stubborn blooming beautiful exotic tropical flower that I thought would never reach full bloom. We had met two years ago and our first conversation just seemed to flow like the right plant for the right place but I came to find out as time progressed that she was a very unpredictable one at that. Sometimes it seemed the more fertilizer and water and I gave her the less she showed any signs of growth so I figured maybe she was more of a drought tolerant poor soil kind of plant that needed very little care. Sometimes it seemed it was better just to forget about her for awhile and not give her any attention because when I did her petals often times would close up. She was a quite a mysterious flower. One day she might open up for me and look quite vibrant and full of life starting to unfold beneath the old growth stems but I became so attached to her that she decided to quit blooming and began to turn brown and wilt.

I approached the front counter and there was Teresa ringing up orders while I waited in line. She appeared to me as some exotic tropical flower also but one that needed much nurturing to survive the present elements. When I sat the gazanias down on the counter I mentioned to her the fact that they were labeled annuals and that I planted some last year and they came back just like perennials. She responded by saying something about the weather and how it was so out of balance that annuals acted like they were perennials and perennials acted like they were annuals. Then we began discussing the weather and how we didn’t like the heat and humidity. She said we could consider ourselves lucky though compared to the all the heat and the floods they were having down in Texas and the tidal wave in Papa New Guinea. She finished ringing up the total price of my purchase. As I started to leave she said, “ Oh my name is Teresa,” and I responded, “ Hi I’m Joe. Oh you must be Anne’s friend who was coming out to help plant in the garden.”

“ Oh how did you know?” She responded. “ Well Anne told me she knew someone by the name of Teresa who worked out here. “As her round brown eyes lit up some more she said, “Well it was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again gardening sometime.” There were other customers standing in line behind me and she needed to tend to her business.

I went back out to the nursery again the following Saturday to buy some more perennials wondering if she would be there and if she was how easy it would be to approach her and take up where we had left off, exchange phone numbers. As I entered the nursery I spotted her over in the annual section among the tables of petunias, watering them down. I proceeded back towards the perennial greenhouse to find the lithodora, daylilies and rudebeckias. Maybe we’ll connect and maybe we won’t, I thought. I pulled my cart to the front checkout counter. She was behind the counter ringing up customers’ purchases. I could sense she was even more tense and distraught. When I came to the counter it was as if she hardly remembered me from the last time but as I began handing her the label codes of the perennials to enter on the computer I said - I can’t even remember what I said; it was probably about the weather again because it was a hot day and she mentioned how uncomfortable she was working in the heat and she had to pull weeds the previous night after closing and said she was getting too old for that. I mentioned that I had taken a hike up to Iron Mountain last Thursday and it was hot up there also. She responded, perking up her ears and said, “ Iron Mountain! Where’s that? I’ve heard of it before.”

“Oh it’s east of Sweethome before Santiam Pass. It’s noted for its wildflower meadows. They’re at their peak right now. It’s a spectacular place to hike.” I explained. “I love to hike. I haven’t been anywhere the year and half I’ve been here!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.
“ Well would you like to go hiking one of these days?” I asked her casually.“I’d love to! I haven’t seen anything.”, she replied. Customers began lining up behind me at he counter and I knew I’d better cut our conversation short and say goodbye but before I did I said, “ Well, if you want to go hiking sometime you’ll have to give me your phone number. I usually take Wednesday or Thursday off.” “ That’s my days off too!” she responded excitedly. Had I crossed paths with someone who struck a resonant chord in the same octave as me? Even though she appeared on edge I sensed grace and harmony hidden somewhere in her soul beyond all the turmoil and violent storms she appeared to be going through. Maybe I was a calm mild breeze to her and maybe she was just what I needed, a place to say my prayers and dive into.
I called her on Tuesday morning only to get her outgoing message. Her voice on the message sounded more grounded and smooth. I had planned to take Wednesday off to hike Brice Creek. I left her my message telling her if she was still interested in joining me to give me a call. I’d be up until 11:00 in the evening. When we spoke out at the nursery she told me she was in the process of moving again. I heard from Anne that she had moved several times in the year and half that she was in town so I assumed that maybe she was too occuppied with moving to find time to go on a hike. Wednesday morning I got up and decided to go to work instead since I hadn’t heard from her, thinking that I’d take Thursday off instead. She called Wednesday morning after I had already went to work and left a message saying she was ready to go hiking. When I got back from work I played back the message and called her and left her a message telling her I ended up going to work and was planning to take Thursday off instead thinking it would give her time to receive my message and call me back but she never called back. I spent the rest of the evening finishing the letter I was composing to Lynn. Thursday morning I dropped the letter in the mail and did a few other errands and then drove to Brice Creek trailhead. There was a mild breeze blowing and the sunlight filtered through the the tops of old cedar and fir in the shaded forest where the continuos steady rhythm of the creek rushed through my ears and I had time to sit still and listen for the ringing of the sacred bell.

Road Kill

I was coming down off the hill rounding a curve on my way towards town when something dashed in front of the car. It was there before I had time to even hit the brakes. The right front fender hit its hind quarters and it spun around and it went down in the ditch over on the other side of the highway. I quickly stopped the car and got out. My heart was pounding fast as I walked over towards it. It just lay there on its right side with its eyes open looking up at me sympathetically as if saying, I know you didn’t mean to injure me. I looked for trails of blood but didn’t see any. It just lay there with its beautiful brownish tan coat, its lungs expanding and contracting at a rapid rate. I ran up to the nearest house and knocked loudly on the front door but no one answered. I ran back down to the road where the doe was still lying and breathing heavily. Then an old guy in a pickup truck stopped and got out and walked across the road where I was standing. “ Oh you hit a deer did you?” he said. “ Yeah I’m afraid I did. It’s the first time I’ve ever hit a deer,” I replied. “Well, it happens every now and then on this road. Most likely something was probably chasing her,” he said as he moved closer and bent down over the injured animal to check it out closer. He put his hand on its side. “Looks to me like it just got the wind knocked out of its sails. I think she’s just stunned a bit. She’ll probably get up and walk away in awhile. I don’t see any blood. I think she’s going to be okay,” he said, trying to reassure me that it was not seriously injured and I could go on my way. I drove on into Portland after the old fellow convinced me that the deer would be okay. After spending a few hours there, doing some grocery shopping and grabbing a quick lunch I was on my way back home. As I approached the hill and rounded the curve I looked for the deer in the ditch where it had been lying before but I didn’t see any sign of it. I pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and got out and walked over to the spot where it had been lying. It was not there. There were no traces of blood anywhere. The old man was right. It was just stunned and in shock and needed some time to gather up its strength and wits before getting up, I thought. I let out a sigh of relief. I got back in the car and drove a few more hundred yards up the road and then I spotted the brownish tan coat in the tall grass in the ditch. I stopped and got out and walked over to it. It had been moving along on its side struggling to get up but couldn’t. Its ribs must have been broken and probably its hind legs. Its frightened eyes were wide open looking up at me. It was suffering tremendously now and was kicking its front legs slowly pushing its way along on its right side there in the tall grass. I knew I had to do something quick. I ran up to the house I had knocked loudly on the front door of before and pounded on it again. An elderly woman finally answered and I told her what had happened. She said she would call the Fish and Game Department because that’s what they did around there when a deer got hit. I waited for five minutes or so while she dialed the number. “ I told them what happened and they said they’d send somebody out right away,” she told me. I went back down the road to where the doe was. It had stopped moving now but was still breathing heavily, gasping for a few last breaths in its agonizing struggle to live. I knelt down beside it and put my right hand on its side feeling the last bit of its life, trying to comfort it, its eyes full of fright still looking up at me. It was beyond the point of struggling anymore and was just hanging on and waiting for the agony to end. It was still warm but was breathing harder. I put my hand on its head trying to help it relax, trying to let it know that I cared for whatever good it would do.
A man and a woman from The Fish and Game Department finally arrived. The woman bent over it in the ditch examining it more closely. “ It’s most likely got some broken ribs and internal bleeding,” she said. “We’ll take care of it from here.” the man told me. He walked back to the truck and came back with a rifle. “ We just shoot them in the brain. It puts them out of their misery real quick. They don’t feel a thing.” he said. They told me I could leave now. As I walked back towards my car I heard the shot ring out and I felt a little better knowing that it was no longer suffering in its painful agony to take another breath. Call it a mercy killing. Like the old man said, something must have spooked her though to run out into the road that fast. I examined the left front fender and grille of my car. There was only a minor dent in the fender and the grille was pushed in a few inches. The damage to my car was hardly even noticeable but another deer was dead and I would be carrying the guilt of killing that innocent helpless animal who was only trying to cross the highway and make it safely to the other side. It was just so sad that it had to suffer so long afterwards before it finally died.

I must interrupt my poetic ramblings about my mountain sojourns

to honor the fifth anniversary of all those standing up to injustice

and speaking out against the illegal occupation and slaughter

of the Iraqis and their homeland.

WHOSE WAR IS THIS

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the sick, the wounded or the poor

the unemployed and the elderly with

their benefits cut off or

the homeless whose population

keeps growing.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the war torn civilians and casualties

over in Iraq,

not the US soldiers who will never

come back

or the ones that do receive no medical aide

but are missing an arm or leg and

a brain and shell shocked beyond

recovery anytime soon.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the children who will be paying for this war

in taxes for decades to come

and not the churches who preach the gospel

in Jesus name

not those who have listened to

Martin Luther King

and march for justice and

equality of all beings.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the children who have been taught

to love their brothers and sisters

everywhere in the world

not the strong and courageous who stand up

to injustice and hatred.


Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not those who respect life and the earth

not the mothers who are about to

or have just given birth

and those who have chosen

not to.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not those who believe in true democracy

and those who work towards energy dependency

not those who try to protect our land, water and our air

and not those who believe free trade should be fair

not those who labor too many hours for

such little pay

and not those who envision

a better way.

Whose War is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the working man or woman or the well educated

or the uneducated and those less fortunate

finding it hard to make ends meet

not the small business owner nor the teacher the gardener

the fireman and the social worker and the care giver

and the common man and woman

on the street.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Those who reap the profits from oil

and stocks in military defense

those big media conglomerates

the energy company swindlers

and global empire builders.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

The admirals and generals in the Pentagon

and the hawks who have never fought

in a war at all

and the CEOs who live in billionaire

gated communities but still

want more.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Those that are afraid of life and afraid to die

and live in constant fear and do not dream

those who do not know what it is like

to be a good human being

and do not understand what the words

love and compassion really mean.

Hitching My Way To Shasta- 1985

I am headed south on Interstate 5 on my way to Mt. Shasta in Northern California, listening to the droning echoes where I face the glaring headlights pouring out of the abyss of the technocratic darkness and wounded souls intoxicated with the American Dream of the authoritative voices dictating data through misguided hardware. Hot metal racing convoys blast through the misty wind and rain as I stand with my thumb out, my cardboard sign up that says ASHLAND- GRASS PANTS. I peer down the long wide straight freeway towards the underpass and the Texaco sign on the left where more hitchhikers wait until a van pulls over for me. The driver wears a black bushy beard and has his long hair tied back in ponytail. “ Climb in brother. Where you headed?” he asks. I throw my pack in the back. “ Mt. Shasta,” I tell him. “ I can get you as far as Roseburg,” he says. Down the road outside of Cottage Grove an old weather-beaten man in a dirty tan wool overcoat and brown beret stands on the shoulder with a duffel bag. We stop for him and the driver tells him to climb in. He looks European. I ask him where he’s from? He doesn’t speak English. “Where are you going?” I ask him pointing to the road map as if that might help him understand. The driver offers him a slice of whole wheat bread. The man takes a bite, and then spits some of it out. “Naw naw,” he mumbles between his yellow teeth. I notice a huge growth under his left eye. I make a motion with my hands trying to communicate to him in sign language and say, “ Where you go?” pointing to the map again. He points his bony forefinger on the Pacific Ocean. “Boat boat,” he says struggling to get out the words. We approach the exit to highway 38 going over to Coos Bay and the man motions to the driver that he wants to be let out there. The driver pulls the van over to the shoulder of the freeway where he is turning off outside of Roseburg. Heavy storm clouds move in from the west with a chilly wind.

The rain begins to let up and the sun tries to break out as I stand outside of Roseburg for an hour or more waiting for my next ride. It’s tough out there these days. Only the people who voted for our president, Ronald Reagan seem to be out on the highways. All the others are stricken by economic hard times and have no money to travel and the rich people keep hoarding all the wealth and keep consuming the billions of gallons of fossil fuel to see America, the only America they know, the America of motels, gas stations, motor homes, Holiday Inns, golf courses and strip malls. Yes the president is doing his job strengthening the military budget to protect the vital interests of those concerned like the corporate landowners, shareholders and stock investors while they hoard the gold through the taxation of the poor and the working class that are struggling harder just to survive. The fiery sun turns a pale silver fading into the gray cloud bank fleeting across the horizon and sinks back behind the wintry clouds and another freezing drizzle starts coming down. It seems like I have been standing here for a thousand lifetimes, waiting for the next ride.

An older man in a black four-door sedan pulls over. He appears to be in his sixties or more. He’s going as far as Grants Pass. “ I know what it’s like to be out there waiting for a ride all day,” he says. He puts in a tape of Beethoven Symphony No 9 in E minor. The sun begins to break through the cloudy haze as he lets me out on the ramp south of Grants Pass. On the outskirts of town stands Litton Industries. I was there last summer to voice my opinion with hundreds of others about the state of this country’s nuclear weapons programs. Over at Litton they’ve got the blueprints for manufacturing the controls for the guidance systems on the Cruise missiles. Glowing bright lights burn above the Phillips 66 and Exxon signs. The foothills of the Cascade Range look small and distant. I wonder what the land looked like before white man came along and killed off the natives and took over their land and built railroads and freeways. I stand waiting as the gray solemn sky grows darker above the glowing civilizations millions miles away and ask why this world is such a mess. The earth has been eaten away and gobbled up by the aristocrats and warlords. They whip the peasants of third world countries into submission to harvest their fruit and machine pack it, label it to be sold on the free market. They seize control of the banana belt and coffee beans where the natives once grew their own food for their families to survive on. Now crop dusters fly over laying down a thick blanket of herbicide. Villages are burned and pillaged. Men, women and children are slaughtered by death squads in Guatemala and here I am only suffering from the cold wind and rain while I wait for my next ride. How fortunate I am. There was an earthquake in Japan last week and one in Idaho the other day. The oceans have been poisoned by billions of gallons of crude oil spilling into it and the nuclear canisters sit at the bottom of the San Francisco Bay. The fish have been contaminated by high-level mercury content and the earsplitting sounds of offshore drilling rigs have taken over the tranquility of the California beach fronts.

I see another hitchhiker walking down the freeway ramp. He’s thin, wiry and wild-eyed and looks like he has been on the road for many days. He carries a small pack and no bedroll. He is another wandering 20th Century gypsy it appears, searching for the end of the road he will never find, but filling up his void with experience coming to the point of revelation that Jesus is coming back. It’s only a matter of when. “ Man there ain’t nobody out there going to save this world except Jesus,” he tells me as he stamps out his cigarette butt into the asphalt. “Man I just go from town to town spreadin the news about the Lord. I don’t see no hope for this human race. Only Jesus can save us!” he shouts like an evangelist. “Damn world’s fuckin nuts!” he mutters. “ A guy just as well get drunk!” he stammers some more as he heads on down the ramp towards the burning lights of Grants Pass. Maybe he’s right, I think. It seems the residents of Grants Pass would rather see the town blown off the face of the earth than give up their jobs in the defense plant.

My brain is wired thinking about the present situation on the death-rolling freeway where no one stops, destination 150 miles south. I roll out my sleeping bag. It is the new moon and the Hopi sweats are going on at this present moment on Mt. Shasta. I can’t be there in the physical but I am there in spirit in the circle with my brothers and sisters. We must hold strong together and pray before the holy mountain shakes. There are more bombings in Beirut, Lebanon. Troops are moving into the Caribbean. Guatemala and El Salvador are being invaded by armies of fascists whom this country supports. Nicaragua will be next. I’ve given up getting a ride after waiting for four hours or more. I find a place behind a bush a few hundred yards from the freeway to stretch out as the cars and trucks and motor homes roar past me on through the night.

Dawn breaks in the east and a cold foggy gray day awaits me as I roll up my sleeping bag and my hands begin to turn numb from the morning’s damp chill. I finally get a ride as far as Central Point and from there I walk another two miles farther south towards Medford. The fog moves in along with the cold brisk wind and the sky grows darker. The cars and trucks move in a continuous motion across what was once the raw land of America. I walk on farther to Medford, just to stay warm. What strange creatures have taken over and consumed the planet. The superpowers of centralized governments have eaten away the woodlands and forests. Geothermal drilling units penetrate the rock bed at the base of high mountains in the Tetons and other places across the West. The grotesque hunks of metal, rubber, vinyl and steel enshroud man in his mobile funeral procession that causes acid rain and the greenhouse effect.
My next ride is a guy in his late thirties driving a Volkswagen van on his way to work where he delivers food in the area to the needy through a local food assistance program. I tell him I’m on my way to visit friends at Mt. Shasta and do some spiritual sweats. “I thought I’d be there by now and in time for the new moon ritual but they will have to go on without me,” I say.
“ It is a rough time of year to be hitching,” he says as he approaches the turn off where he will be letting me out. “It’s rough hitching anytime of the year anymore it seems,” I reply. He pulls over to the shoulder and I tell him goodbye and thank him for the ride. He was a spark of encouragement for the day. More hitchers accumulate on the ramp, wandering vagabonds, some without packs, some without bedrolls or camping gear, some without a hat or coat, some with nowhere to go, except sunny southern California where they won’t freeze the rest of the winter. Hitching is quite different than it was ten years ago. It doesn’t seem anyone out there is it doing it for pure adventure anymore but mostly out of desperation. The other hitchers are gone on down the freeway toughing it out in the pouring rain.
I’m stranded outside of Ashland and end up spending another night after hanging out in a coffeehouse next to a laundromat where I dry my clothes while I listen to a local folksinger sing songs like one the Eagles wrote, put me on the highway and show me a sign and take it to the limit one more time. I drink two cups of chamomile tea and call it a night and head back to the freeway underneath the bridge by the railroad tracks to try and get some sleep before daybreak. The freight trains thunder down the tracks as I slip into a dream.
In the morning I wake to the light showers of rain but it is warmer than it was yesterday. I tell myself it will be good day to travel. I will surely get a ride today. Other stranded hitchers stand under the overpass. One of then calls out, asking me if I got a match. His got wet last night. It begins turning cold and windy as the day wears on and the hours pass. A few hitchers up the freeway in front of me finally get a ride but it’s getting late in the afternoon as I find myself standing in the cold rain without any hope of a ride. Now I must practice discipline I decide if I am going to transcend the physical discomfort. If I had only brought my wet weather gear I’d be in good shape to withstand the elements but I was a fool at the time. All I could think of was getting out of Eugene as quickly as possible. I didn’t occur to me at the time that I might need my rain parka and pants. At the present I must tough it out as best I can. It must be getting close to 4 o’ clock in the afternoon. If I’m lucky and get a ride soon I could still make Shasta before dark. The wind blows harder and no one is stopping. No one even seems to recognize my existence. I hold out my sign again after giving my arm a rest for awhile that says WEED. I mean the town not the smoke. Maybe they think I’m referring to marijuana instead. I pick up my pack and start walking to keep my blood circulating. The big diesel trucks are barreling down on me, leaving the repulsive smells of diesel fumes in the air. I’ve only got a 100 more miles to go. The last stretch of highway seems like it can go on forever. The cold hearted lonely American Dream Machine rolls on. No longer can we rely on the external forces only. We’ve got to use the work of our inner being to guide us home. The wind is blowing harder and still no one is stopping. Then I remember Coyote, the trickster, The Old One, The Ancient Buddha, Old Man Jackal, Great Bear Of The Mountains, the lore of the Great Basin Indians of Northern California. Coyote is also human. Coyote comes in many forms and shapes, Coyote is the shinning one, Coyote is strong and can withstand anything, Coyote is life energy, Coyote is transformation into higher forms of exchange, Coyote cannot be seen on these wasted plains of white man’s wounded world. Coyote has transformed the world into a language of modern poetry. Coyote Man is out looking for Coyote Woman. Coyote dies and is reborn. Right now Coyote is cold and wet and his teeth are chattering. Maybe if he howls loud enough, a motorist will stop for him. Coyote has communicated with extraterrestrial beings. Coyote has seen civilizations come and civilizations go. Coyote is old man wandering down the lonesome road, crossing the threshold of a different time. The prophecies speak of the time when the goodness and purity will prevail in the heart and minds of the people and the earth will be purified.
The cold drenching rain begins coming down harder but I don’t have to wait long before an older gray pickup pulls over. “ You stopped just in time,” I tell the driver as the heavy rain beats against the windshield. “Goddam, something just told me to stop and pick you up,” he says as he lights up a cigarette and offers me one. “ No thanks, “ I say trying to be polite. “Where you heading? I’m going all the way to Sacramento,” he tells me. “Thanks for the ride I’m only going as far as Mt. Shasta,” I reply still shivering from the wet clothes and crouching closer to the heater. He tells me he’s coming back from Alaska and has been working on a construction site, building condominiums up in Haines. He hands me a brochure that advertises the great rugged wild beautiful land of Alaska.
“Made good money up there, between 25 and 30,000 dollars,” he says crushing his last cigarette out in the ashtray. “That’s more money than I’ll probably ever see in my entire life,” I reply. We approach the exit to Mt. Shasta. The holy peak glows out of the western horizon, parts of it hidden in the cool winter clouds. The top of it cannot be seen from the freeway. I climb out of the truck a bit dryer and warmer. Soon I will be joining hands with my brothers and sisters as we pray for the earth to heal.

Coffin Mountain 09/05

How it got it’s name I do not know

but it wouldn’t be a bad place to die

As I’m coming out of the lower forest

climbing over the top of the ridge

the snowless face of Mt. Jefferson rises

behind the tree lined mound of

Bachelor Mountain.

A raven squawks somewhere at the edge

of the higher forest and the afternoon sun casts

shadows on the patches of clear cuts below.

Tips of yellow grass sway in the mountain breeze

where the wildflowers have gone dormant and

their stems have turned brown.

A light gust of wind stirs above the tree line and

thin layers of stratospheric clouds streak across

the infinite horizon.

At the end of the trail a fire lookout sits on

flat granite boulders that rise out of

the glacial shelf.

Off to the west lies Detroit Lake closer to

the hum of civilization

and the ragged peaks of Three Finger Jack appear

far away in the opposite direction.

A ground squirrel scrambles over some rocks

in the scrub a few yards from where I am.

A bumble bee buzzes around my head

and the cleansing mountain wind

blows again.

At the edge of this cliff facing

the ashen volcanic peak of Mt. Jefferson

is a good place for contemplation.

On The Trail To The Summit

On Fuji Mountain

08/14/05 for Patricia

A cool subtle breeze caresses you up here above

Waldo Lake far enough away from armies of mosquitoes.

The luminous silver cumulus clouds build

their regiments of a storm front over the southeast ridges

of the Three Sisters.

Silence fills the chatter inside your mind and a faint rumble

of thunder can be heard to the north

where a bolt of lightning flashes over the Twins.

To the west of Diamond Peak the clear serene sky scape expands

across the lower ranges of the foothills fading into a blue gray

three dimensional wash like a watercolor painting.

As you look over the other side a sheer granite cliff drops off

some five hundred feet below, reminding you to

watch your step in the loose shale and say a prayer.

Seven thousand and one hundred and forty four feet

above sea level on top of this summit

the wind spirit soothes your soul.

The place you came from far down below back in

the valley full of troubles and worries is a long way from

where you are now.

Up here beyond the edge of the forest you stretch your arms

out across the drifting clouds like a red tail hawk

and proclaim your freedom.

Higher On Mt. Shasta

The tree line fades below

as I step among clusters of aster

shooting stars and heather .

Thin wispy white clouds drift

across the crystalline blue sky

like some prehistoric bird in flight,

its wings spanned out across

the pure translucent light

Is there any reason

to go farther on

from where I am?

Roiling gray cloud masts appear

in the heavens like wise old sages

with the answer

burying the warm sun.

I climb higher into the wind

towards the snow covered peak

in the distance, calling me home.

A few hundred more feet I climb

approaching sacred ground among

the trickling snow melt and

ancient stones, a good place to

catch my breath and look down

at the world I left behind.


The air grows thinner

and colder as I go higher

crossing another snowfield

into the sun and wind

to let the old self die.