Here's a poem inspired by a recent hiking trip to New Paltz that I took with some friends. The goal was to begin to get ready for a 10 day Himalayan trekking expedition that we are planning to do in 2011. What I discovered - much to my chagrin - is that I have a long, long way to go before I am fit enough to tackle the highest mountain ranges in the world!
the rocks hang like giant monoliths,
tumbled wildly one upon the other,
like a child’s oversized playthings
scattered wantonly about his room /
the goal, i have been told, is to get
to the top of this mess of rock
where there will be time
to appreciate the sweeping views
from the lofty mountain peak/
my hand reaches up to grasp the ragged bolder
lodged precariously above my head,
and with all the strength I have left,
i pull myself to the next ledge /
a moment to catch my breath,
to reorient myself, and
massage my aching leg muscles /
then it’s time to move on,
inching my way along this primieval
vertical landscape /
dave is already on top,
urging me on with
with his usual air of wanton glee /
for him, this is just a lark in the countryside
but my forty-four year old body is beginning to feel
every sore muscle, every cut, every scrape
of every branch that has violated the sanctity of my
once pristine, twig-like legs /
i curse him and his idiotic exuberance /
if I had a gun with me I would shoot him—
BLAM, BLAM—
ending his juvenile attempts to rouse me
(“too old to make it up the mountain, man?”) /
if i had the guts, I would retreat
right back down these damned boulders
and make my way along the well-beaten,
gently sloping path that winds its way
to the mountain house /
but i am forty-four—almost forty-five actually—
a time when a man can lose his vital essence
and start to settle for the soft ways of midlife
that inevitably lead to the swift, steady decline /
and i will have none of that…
not just yet anyway /
there will be no turning back for me,
no retreating from the misery of the climb,
no acknowledge of age, or pain, or weakness /
all i have to do is make it to giant boulder
hanging 50 feet above me,
and then i’m home free /
the endless agony will finally be over /
i plant my foot in the nearest crevice
and pull myself up,
a sharp, stabbing pain
shooting up my left arm /
cursing the limitations of my flabby flesh,
i haul myself up over one giant rock,
and then another,
till at last I come to the final torturous obstruction /
almost over now, I moan to myself,
and catapult my body over the top
with a loud grunt and heavy sigh /
i’ve made it,
and my reward—
if you can call it that—
is to be able finally to rest my stiff limbs
on the mountainside ledge
and watch as the soft clouds pass silently overhead /
i stretch out on the hard rock,
more comfortable to me than any feather bed
and welcome the sun beating on my face.
“peace at last!” I shout out to my companions,
proud of myself for being man enough
to endure the unmitigated hell
of a weekend mountain climb with the boys.
“whatdoyamean,” replies dave,
his big, stupid face now blocking out the sun.
“we’re only half way up;
we haven’t even gotten
to the really rough part yet.”
someday, I’m going to kill
that bastard.
tumbled wildly one upon the other,
like a child’s oversized playthings
scattered wantonly about his room /
the goal, i have been told, is to get
to the top of this mess of rock
where there will be time
to appreciate the sweeping views
from the lofty mountain peak/
my hand reaches up to grasp the ragged bolder
lodged precariously above my head,
and with all the strength I have left,
i pull myself to the next ledge /
a moment to catch my breath,
to reorient myself, and
massage my aching leg muscles /
then it’s time to move on,
inching my way along this primieval
vertical landscape /
dave is already on top,
urging me on with
with his usual air of wanton glee /
for him, this is just a lark in the countryside
but my forty-four year old body is beginning to feel
every sore muscle, every cut, every scrape
of every branch that has violated the sanctity of my
once pristine, twig-like legs /
i curse him and his idiotic exuberance /
if I had a gun with me I would shoot him—
BLAM, BLAM—
ending his juvenile attempts to rouse me
(“too old to make it up the mountain, man?”) /
if i had the guts, I would retreat
right back down these damned boulders
and make my way along the well-beaten,
gently sloping path that winds its way
to the mountain house /
but i am forty-four—almost forty-five actually—
a time when a man can lose his vital essence
and start to settle for the soft ways of midlife
that inevitably lead to the swift, steady decline /
and i will have none of that…
not just yet anyway /
there will be no turning back for me,
no retreating from the misery of the climb,
no acknowledge of age, or pain, or weakness /
all i have to do is make it to giant boulder
hanging 50 feet above me,
and then i’m home free /
the endless agony will finally be over /
i plant my foot in the nearest crevice
and pull myself up,
a sharp, stabbing pain
shooting up my left arm /
cursing the limitations of my flabby flesh,
i haul myself up over one giant rock,
and then another,
till at last I come to the final torturous obstruction /
almost over now, I moan to myself,
and catapult my body over the top
with a loud grunt and heavy sigh /
i’ve made it,
and my reward—
if you can call it that—
is to be able finally to rest my stiff limbs
on the mountainside ledge
and watch as the soft clouds pass silently overhead /
i stretch out on the hard rock,
more comfortable to me than any feather bed
and welcome the sun beating on my face.
“peace at last!” I shout out to my companions,
proud of myself for being man enough
to endure the unmitigated hell
of a weekend mountain climb with the boys.
“whatdoyamean,” replies dave,
his big, stupid face now blocking out the sun.
“we’re only half way up;
we haven’t even gotten
to the really rough part yet.”
someday, I’m going to kill
that bastard.
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