Old Rattlesnake

Was a time we virtually sprinted up
that mountain trail. Mountain? Hey, more
like a carbuncle of a geological feature on
the New Hampshire landscape of granite
mountains, national and state forests and
fresh water lakes in grand natural abundance.
We were once handily capable of matching
our children's casually energetic strides of
youthful exuberance and adventure.

This has become for us, these forays into
the mountain landscape, a fond tradition.
Forty years on, we are now a simple brace,
still parents, but of children now older than
we were back then. In place of our children,
two elderly little companion dogs, as resolute
as we, eager to expend what energy we can
muster, to match the enthusiasm for
adventuring we cannot and need not contain.

They, like us, youth long behind, but freshness
in vision and aptitude for ongoing trysts with
nature's life-enhancing opportunities, forge on,
delirious with the exhilaration of it all, the
fragrance of the woods, the freedom of movement,
the evanescent birdsong, the teasing presence
of wildflowers; above all, the challenge.

As we initiate the ascent, the syncopated
rhythm of a pileated woodpecker sharply
drums the air. The series of fierce cloudbursts
that marched through yesterday has left
the trail darkly drenched, gravel crunching
underfoot at the trailhead. Our little dogs
are intrigued by odours released by the
rain and are loathe to be hurried along.

The initial ascent is marginally steep, the
trail far too well-maintained; on the verge of
irritating. The natural slope would be far
more welcome than the current advent of
rock-and-log-conceived "steps". Once the
notional steps are left behind, and a
network of tree roots and packed dirt-and-grit
trail remains, progress improves substantially.

Venerable pines, maples and oak whose
measured girth has been elaborated by
ancient layers of lichen lend an otherworldly
air of primeval fantasy to the landscape. An
oven bird's prolonged, repetitive call punctuates
the forest stillness. Along the trail, acorns litter
the ground; swift, tiny chipmunks make their
stealth forays, fleet as shadows to claim bounty.

Huge boulders appear beside the trail,
well lichened and mossed. Underfoot, smooth
granite outcroppings replace the trail from
time to time. Above the leafy canopy, some
blue sky winks back, interrupted by voluminous
billowing clouds, some so black, they throw
a darkly secretive ambiance on the arras.

Dragonflies, large and dark, flit by, intent
on their incessant hunt. The understory of
hemlock and moose maple, along with fern
and tree seedlings march in green insouciance
upon the lower landscape. And among them,
lilies-of-the-valley hugging the bases of
tree trunks; the delicate tiny white bells
already on the fade end of bloom. Solomon's
seal are present, and blueberry shrubs, along
with the flower-white of blackberries.

Obtaining the height, a sprinkling of rain,
as dark clouds hesitate despite the incessant,
determined wind. The views are modestly
splendid...of the lake below and of the vast
sky, scattered with wide stretches of cloud.
An effort, a reasonable and pleasurable one,
has brought us supreme satisfaction and
no little amount of maturity-validation.