backpacking (for my dad)

on mornings like these, cool as desert nights

and moist as rainforest summers, the sun rises

slowly, creeping over the horizon and crowning

the world with golden rays, sending long shadows

dancing across the forest. the woods glisten

with dew and glow with a million sparkling

spiderwebs. the trees are so green on mornings

like these, so tall that the canopy reaches

for the clouds and never stops growing, swaying

in the breeze. song sparrows sing from

high perches and flit from branch to branch,

releasing their soulful melodies to the wind.

as the sun travels from east to west and morning

melts into noon, our hips ache and our feet pound

with every lumbering step, but there’s nothing

more beautiful than a field of wildflowers, or a

freshwater spring, or the top of the mountain,

a view of the world from within the cerulean sky.

we walk. we walk until our thighs groan and our

shoulders throb, every footstep sparking like a

new fire pushing us onward until camp. have you

ever seen a sunset over a pasture, rolling hills,

breeze whistling between tender blades of grass,

a whisper of peace in the darkness of an oncoming

night? on nights like these the world sparkles with

silver starlight, glancing down from celestial

bodies high above. if it’s dry we lie in our tent

and stare upwards at the moon and her companions,

the constellations, our faces sweat-soaked and

dirty, yet still smiling. as we slip into sleep,

I dream of katahdin, a thousand miles north,

and springer, a thousand miles south. and I dream

of smoky mountain fog and maine’s wild remoteness,

of rainy day radiance and glittering diamond sunshine,

of finally calling myself a 2000 miler, and

of summiting every mountain along the way with you.