Wapack Down

After I’ve walked up the auto road

the descent from Pack Monadnock

on the blue-blazed Wapack Trail

almost defeats me. Boulders

and scree, ledge and a trail marked

so poorly I almost tumble

down a hundred-foot gap in the sky.

Ice patches foster bone breaks,

while harsh November sunlight

casts shadows deeper than the eye

in its naked glory can plumb.

My skeleton revolts in its bag

of flesh. Muscles knot and suffer

a lack of elasticity.

The slope feels impractical,

as though the entire mountain

might sluice down to the highway

in a heap of gray apologies.

I don’t remember this trail

feeling so difficult underfoot,

but I haven’t plied it for years.

The last grave stretch of cliff-walking

confuses me so badly I lose

the string of blue blazes and doubt

I can bushwhack so grim a stretch

of bare and almost vertical ledge.

I retrace my steps and recover

the marked trail and stumble down

the last quarter-mile to the road

just as the sun retracts its favors

and allows a sheet of whispers

to slip over the leafless woods.

Tomorrow I’ll try ascending

this slab of primal geometry

by the same steep blue-blazed route.      

Then maybe I’ll recover myself

somewhere along the trail

where I left my youthful ego

cursing the icy rock and claiming

dominion it doesn’t deserve.