On an office wall,
a bright color photograph
of idyllic winter:

blinding sun on snow,
sky as blue as glacial ice,
and a caption from Camus.

Something about discovering
the summer within oneself
in the stonedead chill of winter.

Made me think of one July
when the winter hiding just outside me
tried to get inside and kill.

Going up Mount Baker,
a pleasant summer hike;
we started out in shorts.

In a little while you reach
the place where winter sulks
when summer comes.

Nothing but ice up there.
When clouds condense and the wind blows,
watch out. It tries to kill you.

Snow sucks at your feet like quicksand.
Fall down, get up. Wet snow clings
like feathers to a tarred man.

Tangled up in nylon ropes, we reached the place called Roman Wall.
Aptly named or no, I couldn't say.
Never really saw it in the fog,

and at the time, was not absorbed with scenery.
Too busy looking for a way
to get the cold outside again where it belonged.

Shuddering, into a sleeping bag
with a friend.
I squeezed him like a teddy bear, and chewed a candy bar.

Warm enough to move again,
we headed down where we belonged,
back to where the sun still shone.

Dragging our gear down the mountain
left us slimed with oily sweat.
we sat in the parking lot and drank cold beer.


 
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