Ode to Spode

August 25, 2004

11,000 feet of rock.
a goats trail leads to the top.
Expectations of extreme heat
Instead, days with wet feet.
Rain that fell just like at home,
Sawtooth policy, “no bolder left alone.”
Mountain lakes cool and clear,
Waist high rocks sharp like spear.
Motors sputtered and tires chunking,
Twos a smoking and fours a thumping.
Switchbacks, side-hills, boulders to snare,
At mountains peak we gasp for air.
Views of range so clear and gagged,
Control hands left blistered and ragged.
Miles logged on tacky soil,
To the single track, you must remain loyal.
For if you stray at all,
OTE, and a pesky fall.
Some of us fell victim,
Losing to a rock face playing chicken.
Long days followed by soak in hot spring,
8% urine… I’m sure that it’s clean.
Round the campfire under cloud of stars,
Swapping tales of time behind bars.
In a circle Brazil nuts are passed
Liquored coconut instead of a glass.
At night we fall to sleep at ease
The bear doesn’t want us, just our cheese.