Alone In Yellowstone?

[frisco-kid]

Quite a few years ago now I went cross country skiing in Yellowstone Park. The first day, I skied up Bunsen Peak from Mammoth Hot Springs.

Some of you that know me also know that I like to write a poem once in awhile. I usually do this as a mind excercise. Kinda like some people like to do crossword puzzles. I added to this over a period of a couple weeks. I thoroughly enjoyed recalling an excellent day of cross country skiing. I hope you enjoy the poem.


ALONE IN YELLOWSTONE?


The ground is bare, so I carry my cross country skis.
It's frozen mud here, but higher up the snow is probably above my knees.
It's well below freezing, but not killer cold.
I wonder about my wax; the snow looks pretty old.
The trail gets whiter just as I enter the trees.

It's my first time to ski Yellowstone.
I'm looking forward to today's ski all alone.
The ranger at Mammoth suggested climbing Bunsen Peak.
He said, "The views of Yellowstone Falls will leave you unable to speak."
"But take your time. It will tire you to the bone."

I decide Blue Extra klister is the wax of the day.
I cork it in well, and get on my way.
Right away, my heart begins a hard tick.
I'm glad my wax is working, and continues to stick.
But I know my ability; I know I'll be okay.

I peer deep into the forest; it's too dark to be real.
I immediately notice, how small it makes me feel.
The silence is deafening; it's ringing in my ears.
It stirs something deep inside me; primeval fears?
I rebury them with logic, but it still feels surreal.

I can't shake it; I feel insignificant and meek.
I feel a great presence; I half expect God to speak.
Is this where He sometimes chooses to dwell?
One of the more beautiful places between Heaven and Hell?
I quicken my pace, just a little, up Bunsen Peak.

The evergreens thin out; I'm near the canyon rim.
It's brighter now; deep in the forest it was dark and dim.
But the mostly blue sky, has turned gun-metal gray.
The day promised this morning, has been taken away.
The chance of no snow, has grown pretty slim.

I go around a turn, and up a small rise.
As quickly as that, they're before my eyes.
It's both, the Upper and Lower, Yellowstone Falls.
And to accentuate the moment, a raven calls.
They're about a mile away, but I still appreciate their size.

The ranger was right; they were worth every stride.
I stood there in awe; my eyes stuck open wide.
My heart is pounding, and I'm sucking air;
Induced by excersion, but also the beauty before me there.
"No," I think again. "The ranger hadn't lied."

After taking it off, I reach into my day pack.
I pull out my camera; I feel around for a snack.
I snap off a couple of pictures, and have a bite to eat.
I don't take off my skis; I stay on my feet.
I'm soon on my way again, my pack secure on my back.

The trail soon turns to the right, and it's not as steep.
The snow is deeper; the world is in a silent winter sleep.
The face of the forest changes; now it's aspens and birch.
It's more open and light, but still as quiet as a church.
Suddenly, I think I see a movement; I stare long and deep.

Then I spot him, standing in snow up to his knees.
The eerie silence is broken, as a breeze whispers through the trees.
It's a solitary bull elk, and I think, "Jesus, what a rack."
Then I think of my camera, stowed inside my pack.
I'm standing still as a stone, but I know he sees.

I decide to risk it; I jab my poles into the snow.
I remove my day pack really, really, slow.
With camera in hand, I stride into the trees.
I'd sink above my knees, if I weren't on my skis.
The bull warily watches me, with his head hung low.

I'm within fifty yards; he raises his head; his nostrils flair.
I think, "This is about as close as I probably dare."
I count eight points per side and think, "What a magnificent brute."
I aim the camera, and commence to shoot.
The camera clicks away but, at this distance, he doesn't seem to care.

The temperature is dropping; I need to pick up the pace.
I put a glove liner on my bad hand, just in case.
I adjust my poles on my wrists, and begin to kick-n-glide.
I fall in very quickly, to a comfortable stride.
As I go down a long hill, the air is cold on my face.

In about forty minutes, I smell the wood fire.
I think, "Just in time. I'm beginning to tire."
It's the warming hut I'd seen on the maps.
I ski up to the door, and loosen my pole straps.
I step out of my skis, and go inside to retire.

It takes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light.
Then I see three people at the table to my right.
I learn it's a father, a mother, and a teenaged boy.
A family of Flat-Landers from somewhere in Illinois.
They said they arrived to the park early last night.

They said they rode the snow coach up, and skied the trails nearby.
But they struggled to breath; they hadn't realized it was so high.
I told them I skied up Bunsen Peak.
They said that REALLY made them feel weak.
I told them, "After a couple days, you might try."

We settled into silence, and waited for our ride.
I was looking out the window, as it began to snow outside.
About the time I was expecting the snow coach,
I hear it's roaring engine approach.
I stow my skis and poles, and climb up inside.

I'm thinking of a hot shower, back at Mammoth Hot Springs.
I almost doze off, as the engine monotonously sings.
I half-dream of my time spent with God, the raven, and big bull.
Thinking of the deep silence, sends me into a lull.
I re-live gliding through God's home, like my feet have wings.

I've never again felt as physically close to God, as that day on Bunsen Peak.
I've never again felt so alone, dwarfed, and meek.
That night, as I settled into my bed,
I still had the visions and feelings of the day, playing in my head.
And, as sleep gently overtook me, I thought I heard Him softly speak.

[Raggedy Ann]

Great poem Tom. Thanks for posting it.

RA

[Packo]

you've saved all your works Tom, you really do have a talent. This is a great poem. Don't know how I missed this first time around. Thanks for sharing with us.

Pack