Ascend miles of Douglas fir, white pine,
zones of Engleman spruce and western larch.
A sunny meadow
lies hinged to the mountain
by the last gnarly spruce.
Springs gurgle amid purple shooting star blossoms
and white-petalled grass of Parnassus.
I nibble Jarlsberg, dried pear,
swirl the soft breeze—
seep into grassy
earth.
(North Fork of the Teannaway, 2005)
(No. 98 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Each summer my old backpacking buddy Bruce and I spend most of a week further refining the art of “alpine loafing.” This term refers to a sustained state of deep repose in God’s Country—for which one has to pay considerable dues in getting to and from. Bruce usually pushes us in the direction of steeper and longer climbs. Most often my role is to keep the equation balanced in favor of loafing over grunting.
It’s always interesting to see where we get to and how we got there. Sooner or later, we consistently manage to enter the loaf zone. Invariably we are surprised, amazed at its restful quality, its beauty and power.
This poem describes such a moment.
(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)
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