On the Trail

I’m on the trail at dawn.
A day-glo sun,
the color of my tee,
climbs up the limbs of one dark pinyon tree.
The brush around my feet is brittle.
With so little monsoon rain,
the fires now won’t be contained
for several days
or even weeks.

I wet the mask Leanna made me –
cool and damp against my cheeks.
I read that firefighters use this way
to filter smoke and heat and ash.
It’s probably the wrong idea to hike
when this pollution is so bad,
but I’ve been shut inside
too long.

I start my trek
up through the grasses and the scree.
My hiking boots that once were green,
already have bleached tan with dust.
Around a curve,
the ranger must have stacked
a pile of rotted branches
high to block a fork
so others won’t get lost.
I pass the mossy boulder
with its eagle’s beak.

The pathway steepens
and then evens out a bit –
enough for me to take a sip
of warmish water
from my flask.
A purple mask hangs
off a cactus spike.
The toasted air is still and hot and thick.
Twin mountains bathe
in gray-blue haze
like ones I’ve seen
in Asian woodblock prints.

A wadded Kleenex
half-concealed
beneath a baby cairn,
lies hostage to a termite clan
encircling it
like an undulating Mylar band.

A woman
who I sort of know,
steps off the trail to
let me by.
I think her cattle-dog’s named
Sid or Sam.

My eyes begin to burn,
but I’m determined now to
make it to the top.

A granite rock
with rosy veins
that split in half
a million years ago
now lets a pack of
new explorers through.

One final push
along the sandstone ridge.
My practiced fingers
find the cracks
that steady my ascent.

On hands and knees,
I reach the end.
Nobody here
except the wind.
As far as I can see,
a blanket of uncertainty
has veiled the land below.

In this strange time of wondering,
hungering for clarity,
but smoke-blind
from a blaze out of control,
we wait
behind our purple masks.
No air to breathe,
No stable ground,
but still,
I will
enjoy the journey down.