The Rumi Hike (Mar 9, 1996).
My thoughts have been stuck in an endless loop for awhile and I really
needed to break the cycle. With predictions of a beautiful weekend, I
made plans to go hiking. Saturday morning I woke up before dawn and
listened to Rumi poetry while the sun crested the mountains to the
east. Then I headed up to Golden Gate State Park to go hiking. Because
of deep snow, the trails were empty and the foot prints appeared to be at
least a week old. It was a beautiful day so I hiked the loop around
Tremont mountain. There was knee deep snow on the north side of the
mountain, making for peaceful surroundings for hiking.
Postholin'
March 9, 1996 - Elk trail, Golden Gate State Park
Up at 5am to hear Rumi call the sun from it's slumbers.
Slowly, it breaches the ridge and bathes everything in royal purple.
The mystic's palatial estate, a violet crown at 14,000 ft.
Then, trying to hear the sufi's words through another's ears:
Surrounded by warm candlelit water, instead of soothing rays.
Back to the warm cocoon, the compassionate slumber taking
the burden of thoughts from my heart.
Rumi's morning sun has run half it's course.
now its my turn to crest a ridge.
Surrounded by deer scat and scrub pines.
I carry my emotions higher in a fanny pack.
Within a mile, I being to molt.
Efficient climbing means burdens of the shoulders and
heart should have been left behind.
By nine-two I'm in a rhythm. Breath working.
Heart straining. Thum, thum, thum.
White appearing ahead, mud squishing downhill.
From the rocks striving heavenward, a black jester soars,
laughing at my slothful pace.
Ahead, a father's son drums on a tree trunk.
His dog dancing to the childish beat.
Calling Frazier's ghost from within it's forest mansion.
Now travel companions a week removed guide me
through the northern meadows.
Running down hill sides: sliding, falling, laughing.
Juniper loop enticing me on downhill.
Leaving my invisible guides with a wave and
charging back uphill.
Panting, heart a deafening roar. Bm Bm Bm Bm Bm....
Unbroken snow westward. Even the elk have avoided elk trail.
At nine-six, a knee deep flood is rolling imperceptibly into
the ravine.
Wading uphill, ice climbing my pants leg to revenge my
smashing blows.
Skreek-crunch, skreek-crunch, skreek-crunch.
A half mile of unseen fence dividing left from right,
ration from emotion, love and friendship.
Hopefully, Spring will soon return the unity.
A rock outcropping off trail brings out the poor-me chickadee.
Stealing my snack with a tilted head and plaintive whistle.
Snyder's wisdom untouched since the bird lectured instead.
Telling nature's secrets but not those of the buried trail.
Northward through aspens to the nearest road.
Elk trail can't hide from bulldozers and snowplows.
Departed guides return to lead the incompetent to the
treasures ahead.
Gasping and fallen to bended knee.
Rumi's crown now aged to a stately white.
Greater from a distance, nourished by the warm spring air.
Horseplay driving me down from the point.
Running with a morning herd along a ridge.
Lead away by the unheard bellowing of a great bull.
One mile too far north, the herd disbands.
Another bail-out and asphalt rescue.
South till again Elk trail appears.
Even my invisible guides have lost hope in me.
Instead, horses perhaps a search party sent out yesterday,
bring me back.
Rumi patiently waiting to hear my tales of the high country,
and remind me of a bath soaked girl I left behind going
downhill at nine-four.
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