The Summer of 1959

It seems to come from nowhere, or so

I think, as I gain the alpine tundra high.

Thrashing lightning and rolling thunder

turn the sky into rockets and mortars.

No longer can I enjoy the forget-me-nots

and Parry primroses combed with wind.

Sheets of driving rain mixed with icy sleet

sting my face and hands as I plan my quick

retreat to a lake below where my friends

await me with some food and steaming coffee.

As I descend the cliffs I cannot help but see

miles on end of alpine humps so gray in storm.

I constantly slip and slide on wobbly rocks

above a misty lake — but wait! There are three

lakes, each in a different valley and which

one should I choose? A lightning strike above

my head forces a wrong decision with hours

of labor just to get to a deserted rainy lake

with no friends. My only choice — to follow an

outlet stream tumbling down through bramble

and brush besides slippery moss-lined waterfalls.

My friends must think I’ve lost my life high up

on the goddess Ida’s slopes lashed with lightning.

A patch of bright blue columbines calm my soul

beside a peaceful running river rippled in rain.

I cannot rush my mired descent to a valley

where the Colorado River flows and tourists

stay camped by friendly fires and curling smoke.

Tired, weary and hungry I finally emerge from

the pathless wood and hitchhike back to the

village of my friends twelve hours late for lunch,

just before a search begins for my  missing bones.