The bed-rock of hiking is finally the minutes when you have given up the destination. Purity of movement. Sweat soaked, blue checked shirt. The right foot passing the left, left passing the right.
Red columbine, blue bells, pale trillium and the Canadian dogwood pass within the dry suck of breath. Arms swing side to side propelling and knees are thick. I do not raise my head to look at the peaks, the clouds, how the sun shafts through the evergreen branches. I see my old brown boots, not picking the rocks, but splash through the shallow creek. I see the roots ahead then passing underneath, then my mind analyzing the slope of the next boulder, my eyes searching for toe holds. I hear the drum of the beaten trail as if the skin of the earth holds a hollow. These are the only minutes that I am no longer the observer but for even a few breaths pass into being another animal in the forest.
This instant I am not set apart.
At this lake I settle on a boulder, an island, eat the cheese sandwich and drink a quart of water. Then I curl up on the rock. Tuck my knees, close my eyes. Feel the clouds, wet and clammy, until the sun moves back, slides softly like warm silk against my skin.
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