Hiking the Whites

I’m looking at the days of hiking in the Whites. 

At first, the climb appears to be a chore; 

you fight for every step you take. 

Is that a pebble in my boot? 

I think my backpack isn’t packed precisely. 

Maybe I should stop to have a swig of Gatorade. 

Maybe I should turn around and try another day. 

But soon there comes a time when such 

a wall of thinking disappears, 

when you yourself have disappeared. 

I am the bear claw imprint on the ash tree. 

I am the deep ravine hardscrabble rock-slide. 

I am the Lapland Rosebay far above the tree line. 

All that now remains is just the closest cairn 

and that resplendent clarity of alpine fresh awareness.