We
talk big. But we do, and we feel small. So small, and cold down to our bones.
The wild is never so kind to us as we assume it will be amidst our
anticipations. But we fight and carve out some enjoyment regardless.
We wilderness seekers, we think we know how to find our dreams. Then we get knee-deep into the looking and figure out we may not be content until after we have gotten passed what we hoped to get to.
The campsite is excellence, except for the thorn thickets which require hours of clearing. The hike is good, except for the endless hills and too-small shoes.
We argue and laugh, argue and laugh. Soon we short-cut and pretend we don’t care that we are “cheating.” But hot tea awaits us at the halfway point and we can’t believe how big the lake is there.
It is evident, on the getting there, that the map should be studied and a different course taken on the homeward journey. In the midst of tea and decisions we spill a quarter pound of sugar. Something for the forest folk to remember us by.
Go back by the frozen marshes—it is decided.
Cattails break dryly before our feet and their fluffy heads coat us in pollen. We laugh more and argue less. But we hurry. Our highway of ice starts to melt. Irony is a regular comrade on these ventures. We want it cold now, but as we shivered in our sleeping bags only hours ago, warmth was all we dreamed of.
We make it out, we make it home. And there we lie, exhausted. It is not that we aren’t glad we adventured, just that we need a bit of time before we are eager to do it again. One night should do.
We wilderness seekers, we think we know how to find our dreams. Then we get knee-deep into the looking and figure out we may not be content until after we have gotten passed what we hoped to get to.
The campsite is excellence, except for the thorn thickets which require hours of clearing. The hike is good, except for the endless hills and too-small shoes.
We argue and laugh, argue and laugh. Soon we short-cut and pretend we don’t care that we are “cheating.” But hot tea awaits us at the halfway point and we can’t believe how big the lake is there.
It is evident, on the getting there, that the map should be studied and a different course taken on the homeward journey. In the midst of tea and decisions we spill a quarter pound of sugar. Something for the forest folk to remember us by.
Go back by the frozen marshes—it is decided.
Cattails break dryly before our feet and their fluffy heads coat us in pollen. We laugh more and argue less. But we hurry. Our highway of ice starts to melt. Irony is a regular comrade on these ventures. We want it cold now, but as we shivered in our sleeping bags only hours ago, warmth was all we dreamed of.
We make it out, we make it home. And there we lie, exhausted. It is not that we aren’t glad we adventured, just that we need a bit of time before we are eager to do it again. One night should do.
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