Some twenty years ago, or thereabouts, we went for a drive. We travelled west from Ontario, and ended up at Waterton Lakes National Park located in Alberta. While there we did some short hikes, but ever so concerned about bears, we stuck pretty close to the Park's headquarters. There was reason to be concerned as, in addition to Black bears, grizzlies are known to inhabit the park, and only weeks before a resident of Pincher Creek had been almost mauled to death by a sow Grizzly. We learned of a organized hike, and although it wasn't being led by a park employee, the fact that we'd be part of a group provided a degree of comfort. If we were to run into trouble there, at least there would be support to get us back to the trailhead for help. So, early one morning we joined a group of fifteen, or so, intrepid hikers on a tour boat that motored us across the lake to the trailhead leading up to an alpine lake referred to as Crypt Lake. Most of the group were young and in good shape, so it wasn't surprising that after a few minutes we older folks were left behind. We could here everyone for the first half hour, or so, singing and shouting as they ascended hoping that any bears on the trail would hear them and move off the trail. It must have worked as during the hike we didn't see, or encounter any bears........
Waterton Lake - Watercolour Field Sketch. 1999
A Trail Hiked
The trail was long, the longest encountered.
We started at dawn, but didn’t get far.
Faced with a climb, a challenge indeed,
we needed a rest to gather our strength;
and keep up our speed
Rested, direction determined,
we sped down the trail ever alert
to that which might lurk,
at the side of the trail.
Whistles and bells, hopeful at best,
but voice raised in song we’re told is the best.
So voices raised we set off exploring
wilderness settings,
judged some of the best.
Upwards,
ever upwards we climbed.
The air became thinner,
our speed became slower, and
caused us to struggle to get enough air
to continue to reach our destination,
near to the sky.
The tree line was left behind.
Ahead; we faced a challenging climb,
zig zags and switchbacks;
aggravated by heat and thirst,
made the climb much, much worse.
Challenge accepted we soon reached the top.
The view;
spectacular,
blue sky, and mountains filling the horizon,
as close as one gets near to the stars.
A rest well deserved we turned on our heels, and
with voices raised we hiked down the trail,
tripping, slipping, and skidding
on loose sand and shale.
Below the tree line and through the forest,
huffing and puffing, we stop for a rest, then onwards,
racing the sun as it sinks in the west.
The trailhead is reached.
With twilight falling;
despite feet swollen and sore,
and with pride in achievement soaring,
we hold tight to the memory;
…………..lived long, long, ago.
From time to time I attempt to write some prose and poetry. If you like great poetry, then stick with Keats, or Browning. However, if I've tweaked your curiosity, and you think that you might be interested in reading the attempts at serious writing by an older geezer, then try this link, which should take you to my Ernest's Poetic Musings.
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