Clear and cold,
a bubbly tongue of water speaks
of the pass a thousand feet higher. The way
rises through melting snow, rock grottoes,
basins of nodding avalanche lilies.
Marmot whistles tingle
the thin air.
We climb steep snowdrifts
to grassy ridge tops
southwest of the pass,
lunch over swapped stories
more truthful
because we are
here.
(No. 86 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Marmot Pass is the crown jewel of the northeast Olympic Mountains, a real favorite of folks around here. Alone or with friends, I climb to the early melt ridges above the pass, and beyond, once or twice a year. I’ve gotten lost in white outs up there twice now, had the pee quietly scared out of me each time. On one of those occasions I managed to use compass bearings and good luck to make it out in the dark–I found trail very near “the Source,” as I have come to think of the artesian spring that pops out of the ground at the beginning of this poem. Water collected from the Source on that occasion still graces my meditation altar.
The silence of this place is shocking. What sounds occur are so true that they are no different from the silence.
(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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