MORNING AT HIGH CAMP

Ski in early. Cold, mid-20s and fog.
Solo day. Left notebook on floor
by the butterscotch chair. Ski
through a scattering of men
heading for Hogback, back country.
Last night’s dream surfacing.
Visiting my friend in his mountain home,
New to him and his wife. I’ve forgotten
a housewarming gift. Sitting with coffee,
remembering the dream with apple,
sea salt caramels. I’ll save Maggie’s
home-made pork tamales for later.
Window table, varnished pine, High Camp.
The Mountain in clouds. Bly’s New Moon
title page opposite blank page I write on,
his Chinese poems preparing me
for his stunningly gorgeous
Collected Poems waiting beside my chair.
Waiting for my readiness.
My grandkids grow into another life
off skis, not with me this morning.
New boots in molded stiff plastic,
heat-fitted to my foot, working out.
Still empty tables on second floor.
I gambled on this, a Saturday,
settling on Bly’s poems from mid-70s,
Old Man Rubbing his Eyes. Sound
of ski boots on ground floor,
recalling horses in mid-west barns.
Bly’s ears hearing tinier, animal
things. The man across from me
drinks an amber glass of beer
from plastic cup. I bring my own mug
leaving it in camp kitchen. I’ve brought
chocolates for lift operators. A friend
of my daughters, mid-40s, comes over,
sits down, tells me about a podcast.
I offer him a chocolate. He's listened
to men in their 80s and 90s talking
about their most vibrant moments,
he asks me about mine. Swimming
in a Wyoming creek at 48, I felt
like I was above tree line, entering
my 50s. Big stuff, still. But felt,
and still feel, underage in my 70s.
The Solo hike on the Wonderland Trail,
sat me down, made me understand some things.
I ask him, my young friend,
what he thinks about sound systems
blasting music from speakers by chair lifts.
Do you consider this might be sound pollution
violating contract with the Forest Service?
I show my friend the title of Bly’s poems.
He asks me, Are you rubbing your eyes?

Jim Bodeen
5-6 January 2019




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