Why does his shell feel so hard
She cannot hear him deep inside
Their tears flow deep and unseen
Life just isn't the same it seems
She tries to breach his hidden shell
She wants to calm his living hell
He knows exactly how she feels
But time and space can only heal
How wasted nights fill empty space
Replacing their hidden special place
Can what was close become so distant
Now all that exists is stark resistance
Minor victories go without compliment
As if dismissed without sentiment
Pride is quickly tossed aside
When only hurt exists inside
Meanwhile she ponders in despair
Bound with a love belonging elsewhere
Are dreams just cheap tricks of hope
Minor distractions are how she copes
Her life-long love has long gone
Left her feeling that it's all a con
She got lost living a life of lies
Until it filled with empty despise
Appeasement killed her with subtle ease
As she lived life in order to please
She never heard her inward sound
A part of her was dead she found
Time never slowed or stood still
For her to see what was real
Did true love ever really exist
Was it another delusion of bliss
Autumn came when she found answers
Again her life was full of laughter
Still many questions remain unasked
And answers hide behind a mask
Those small victories she yearns to share
Quickly pass now he's not there
Pride is just a passing phase
Restored by memories of long gone days
She longs to comfort her hurting muse
But she knows that he'll pull through
She's careful of his fragility
And patiently waits with mental agility
An agility that dances around despair
Has she choreographed steps to nowhere
Or will he reappear a willing partner
And take her hand and dance beside her
by Karen Bayley-Ewell July 28, 2011
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Nothing works..!
I arrived back in London after a 4 hour bus journey from Swansea where I'd spent a
wonderful Christmas with my family and visiting my 93 year old mum
everyday in hospital after her recent total hip replacement. I was back again at Heathrow underground station. I knew the efficient drill that ensured a speedy exit of this station and grabbed a free airport cart to avoiding unnecessary schlepping of my bag. After queuing up to purchase my first Oyster card like a real Londoner, I abandoned the airport cart and took off through the turnstiles to the tube-trains. After a nearly two hour journey across London on a crowded tube, my first encounter was with a grumpy cab dispatcher in the cab office at
Walthamstow Central station who grunted, "Cab 11" without even looking
up to see who he was talking at. "Well where the fuck is cab 11?", I
mumbled under my breath as I pondered the half dozen cabs parked
outside. I couldn't be arsed to ask him so I schlepped my one huge bulky
bag over my back like a hobo and stepped back out into the dark 5pm
chilly London night and asked the first cabby I see if he's
number 11. Indeed he was. Bingo..! Thankfully, the middle-eastern cabbie
was a friendly guy who was looking forward to New Year's Eve and asked
me if I'd had a nice flight as he loaded my bag
into the boot.. I realized I still had the airline tag attached to my
bag from my arrival at London Heathrow from San Francisco 10 days ago. I was looking forward to staying at the Hitchcock again
The Sir Alfred Hitchcock is very unique with its stone walls, wooden-beamed interior, low ceilings, hardwood floors, nooks and crannies, alcoves, comfortable couches and armchairs, and a large fireplace in the middle of the room that could be enjoyed by patrons on both sides of the bar. The presence of Sir Alfred Hitchcock is everywhere. The walls are covered with memorabilia from the movies, and of other Leytonstone times gone by. The quiet location of the hotel on the edge of Epping Forest is juxtaposed by the hustle and bustle of inner London, and the busy M11 link road; a 10 minute walk away.
I finally arrived at the Sir Alfred Hitchcock Hotel and was truly looking forward to sitting next to their open fire with a pint that I'd been gasping for since my arrival at Heathrow. It was a crisp wintery night. The sight of the hotel's illuminated redbrick facade triggered memories of times gone by. I had enjoyed many a £1 a pint Murphy's back in the mid-nineties. I always loved the Hitchcock when I lived 10 minutes away from here, and always live to recapture those moments when I go home by having a rendezvous with my old friends here. The only things that change are the price of a pint..., and of course, tariffs...
I arrived at the bar to check in:
"That'll be £165, please."
"Um, no. It's £133. We confirmed that via email..."
"Oh it would be normally, but it's the Christmas period!"
It's always this way whenever I go home. There's always something! This time it's the overcharge for my hotel room because of "the Christmas week."
"But I gave the dates! I was quoted £133 pounds. Now it's £165?! I have the email." I go to bring out my phone to find the email and then stop. An inner voice asked me, why bother? "Okay, never mind", I smiled. "We can sort it later if need be. It's still a good deal and I understand the Christmas rate." I certainly had no intention of going anywhere else just because of a relatively small overcharge. Besides, the price was still a good deal for London. The hotel is fifteen minutes from Leytonstone tube station and a short bus ride to Walthamstow Central trains, underground and buses.
My mind wandered back to the present transaction. I paid up, smiled, got my key, and asked what time the restaurant closes... "Oh the chef is away, but I think he's back tomorrow! We'll be open for breakfast tomorrow morning." Here we go again, I thought. Always the same. British hospitality at its best! "Oh okay, no worries!" I'd long since given up asking too many questions. I'm home now... I got to my, thankfully, pre-heated room, and followed the directions to turn on the TV to get some BBC news on the telly. The screen remained as blank as the look on anyone's face here when you ask for help with anything. Nothing! Anyway, like I said, nothing works! And the television was no exception. Exasperated, I tossed the remote-control aside on the bed and then tried to find that wretched confirmation email on my phone. Although I had already decided it was okay, I really wanted to let them know that £133 is what we had agreed on and plus the TV didn't work, or I couldn't figure it out. Then I stopped; "Oh fuck it...", I told myself. "To hell with the email and the sodding television, I'm here for a stress-free time and to have fun." I showered, changed, and headed to the bar. Despite not meeting my friends until my last night here, I donned my new designer cape- top from Ruti's on Fillmore, my consignment store True Religion jeans, boots, long scarf and wool fedora and set out for the bar. I felt great.
I ordered my liquid dinner and side-dish of crisps and peanuts. I wasn't that hungry anyway. I'll have a decent cooked breakfast tomorrow. After a couple of pints, I felt at home again as I warmed myself by the open-fire and absorbed its heat and warm glow. I soon discarded my scarf being careful to place it where I wouldn't forget it and drifted in thought with the chattering of the bar in the background.
Nothing works here -- except the things that truly matter. I'd already added to the cost of time by even trying to find the confirmation email, I pondered. I know far too well that openly expressing frustration here gets you absolutely nowhere... As a matter of fact, it often makes things worse. My internalized frustrations as a result of the surly cab dispatcher, broken TV and overcharge melted away as each pint took effect and soon replaced by enjoying the things that did work.
The shower worked
The heater worked.
The beer worked.
The wireless worked.
Ah! The real fire worked!
The full English buffet breakfast worked!
The restaurant worked.
My warm scarf worked.
My consignment store gray wool full-length wrap coat worked.
My consignment store fur-edged leather fedora worked.
Most of all - my visit to my 93 year old mum worked to make her happy.
Sometimes it just doesn't matter if the TV doesn't work in a very warm cozy hotel room. That is what a good bar, beer, open fire, an early morning frost, crisp winter nights, friends, and memories are for. And why I'll always be back for more.
The Sir Alfred Hitchcock is very unique with its stone walls, wooden-beamed interior, low ceilings, hardwood floors, nooks and crannies, alcoves, comfortable couches and armchairs, and a large fireplace in the middle of the room that could be enjoyed by patrons on both sides of the bar. The presence of Sir Alfred Hitchcock is everywhere. The walls are covered with memorabilia from the movies, and of other Leytonstone times gone by. The quiet location of the hotel on the edge of Epping Forest is juxtaposed by the hustle and bustle of inner London, and the busy M11 link road; a 10 minute walk away.
I finally arrived at the Sir Alfred Hitchcock Hotel and was truly looking forward to sitting next to their open fire with a pint that I'd been gasping for since my arrival at Heathrow. It was a crisp wintery night. The sight of the hotel's illuminated redbrick facade triggered memories of times gone by. I had enjoyed many a £1 a pint Murphy's back in the mid-nineties. I always loved the Hitchcock when I lived 10 minutes away from here, and always live to recapture those moments when I go home by having a rendezvous with my old friends here. The only things that change are the price of a pint..., and of course, tariffs...
I arrived at the bar to check in:
"That'll be £165, please."
"Um, no. It's £133. We confirmed that via email..."
"Oh it would be normally, but it's the Christmas period!"
It's always this way whenever I go home. There's always something! This time it's the overcharge for my hotel room because of "the Christmas week."
"But I gave the dates! I was quoted £133 pounds. Now it's £165?! I have the email." I go to bring out my phone to find the email and then stop. An inner voice asked me, why bother? "Okay, never mind", I smiled. "We can sort it later if need be. It's still a good deal and I understand the Christmas rate." I certainly had no intention of going anywhere else just because of a relatively small overcharge. Besides, the price was still a good deal for London. The hotel is fifteen minutes from Leytonstone tube station and a short bus ride to Walthamstow Central trains, underground and buses.
My mind wandered back to the present transaction. I paid up, smiled, got my key, and asked what time the restaurant closes... "Oh the chef is away, but I think he's back tomorrow! We'll be open for breakfast tomorrow morning." Here we go again, I thought. Always the same. British hospitality at its best! "Oh okay, no worries!" I'd long since given up asking too many questions. I'm home now... I got to my, thankfully, pre-heated room, and followed the directions to turn on the TV to get some BBC news on the telly. The screen remained as blank as the look on anyone's face here when you ask for help with anything. Nothing! Anyway, like I said, nothing works! And the television was no exception. Exasperated, I tossed the remote-control aside on the bed and then tried to find that wretched confirmation email on my phone. Although I had already decided it was okay, I really wanted to let them know that £133 is what we had agreed on and plus the TV didn't work, or I couldn't figure it out. Then I stopped; "Oh fuck it...", I told myself. "To hell with the email and the sodding television, I'm here for a stress-free time and to have fun." I showered, changed, and headed to the bar. Despite not meeting my friends until my last night here, I donned my new designer cape- top from Ruti's on Fillmore, my consignment store True Religion jeans, boots, long scarf and wool fedora and set out for the bar. I felt great.
I ordered my liquid dinner and side-dish of crisps and peanuts. I wasn't that hungry anyway. I'll have a decent cooked breakfast tomorrow. After a couple of pints, I felt at home again as I warmed myself by the open-fire and absorbed its heat and warm glow. I soon discarded my scarf being careful to place it where I wouldn't forget it and drifted in thought with the chattering of the bar in the background.
Nothing works here -- except the things that truly matter. I'd already added to the cost of time by even trying to find the confirmation email, I pondered. I know far too well that openly expressing frustration here gets you absolutely nowhere... As a matter of fact, it often makes things worse. My internalized frustrations as a result of the surly cab dispatcher, broken TV and overcharge melted away as each pint took effect and soon replaced by enjoying the things that did work.
The shower worked
The heater worked.
The beer worked.
The wireless worked.
Ah! The real fire worked!
The full English buffet breakfast worked!
The restaurant worked.
My warm scarf worked.
My consignment store gray wool full-length wrap coat worked.
My consignment store fur-edged leather fedora worked.
Most of all - my visit to my 93 year old mum worked to make her happy.
Sometimes it just doesn't matter if the TV doesn't work in a very warm cozy hotel room. That is what a good bar, beer, open fire, an early morning frost, crisp winter nights, friends, and memories are for. And why I'll always be back for more.
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Monday, January 19, 2015
Cafe Hats
The open window allowed the warm balmy tropical breeze to diffuse around the cafe giving an uncharacteristic feel to this San Francisco fall day.
Summer floral dresses, conversation and coffee. Beer flows like the thought processes of the heads dutifully bowing over laptops, books and writing-pads.
And the hats! Hats on backwards, forwards, tilted, wilted sheltering eyes from the sun. Fedoras, straw and felted blend with the occasional one-off style.
A striking hat bending over a pad and pastels spread out before the hat. Immersed in her creation, she looks up and smiles, "drawings of thirty years of memories" she announces as she adds another to mine.
Summer floral dresses, conversation and coffee. Beer flows like the thought processes of the heads dutifully bowing over laptops, books and writing-pads.
And the hats! Hats on backwards, forwards, tilted, wilted sheltering eyes from the sun. Fedoras, straw and felted blend with the occasional one-off style.
A striking hat bending over a pad and pastels spread out before the hat. Immersed in her creation, she looks up and smiles, "drawings of thirty years of memories" she announces as she adds another to mine.
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La Lettre (1908). Jean Béraud
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Saturday, January 17, 2015
Stand up to Elephants
A giant question mark hung over the world asking how France would respond to the massacre committed by Islamic terrorists at the Charlie Hebdo office. The answer was a surprise. On that fateful Wednesday of January 7th, 2015, the French did not announce the attack as an "act of war" or declare a "war on terror." And they did not react by calling upon allied nations to bomb or invade another nation in retaliation for such a heinous act. Instead of loading magazines in machine guns, writers and cartoonists joined together in the spirit of satire by putting pen to paper to fire rounds of words and
cartoons at the absurdity of the murderous assault on the freedom
of expression enjoyed by the free world.
France and the rest of the free-world was not going to be silenced by terror. The world's army of cartoonists delivered an important message on the value of freedom of expression. A plethora of cartoons, street art, and articles condemning the attack emerged over social media, and the press. One cartoonist illustrated the message with a diminutive figure of a terrorist holding a smoking rifle cowering in a corner surrounded by the biggest, and most effective of weapons; an array of pens aiming at him from the sky. Another cartoonist, from the Daily Telegraph responded in defiance with an illustration of a group of terrorists about to storm the offices of Charlie Hebdo and being warned, "Be careful, they may have pens..."
The following Sunday, France and other members of nearby European countries came together to attend unity rallies in Paris and across the country. The unity and solidarity of the rallies transcended age, ethnicity, political affiliation, faith, and socioeconomic status. The scene of one and a half million people swarming around Paris was a moving one. Reporters on national television conveyed the atmosphere and public responses. Francois Hollande announced, "Paris is the capital of the world today. Nothing stops France. With three revolutions; a reign of terror; the Nazi occupation, and subsequent liberation, the people of France know more than anyone, the value of liberty, and freedom of expression.
The French understand that being offended does not afford offended parties any protection from being offended. They do not compromise freedom of expression in the form of excessive political correctness. Nothing illustrates this more when Charlie Hebdo published its first edition after the massacre with a caricature of Muhammad on its front cover with the caption, "Tout est Pardonne'. Alas, media outlets failed to follow suit.
What followed, can only be described as a hypocritical act of betrayal by mainstream news sources when they failed to support Charlie Hebdo. Newspapers published only the top half of the front cover omitting the cartoon of Muhammad. SkyNews in the UK showed the ultimate cowardice in an act of self-censorship by cutting off Charlie Hebdo writer, Caroline Fourest in the middle of a live broadcast when she went to hold up the magazine cover for viewers. The news anchor even went on to "apologize for any offense caused."
It should be no surprise that France is the birthplace of enlightenment that eventually freed her from the reins of oppression by religion and tyrannous monarchies. It should be no surprise that writer, Evelyn Beatrice Hall summed up the French philosopher Voltaire's view of freedom of expression with "I disapprove with everything you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it." The staff at Charlie Hebdo died defending that right. Sadly, we betrayed them.
The rest of us should allow France and Charlie Hebdo to lead by example and not be pinned against the wall by the elephant in the room that is called religion. To deny ideology as a factor in oppression, war and terrorism is to disregard part of the problems of unshakable belief systems. On January, 7th, we were all Charlie Hebdo. Let's not stop there.
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France and the rest of the free-world was not going to be silenced by terror. The world's army of cartoonists delivered an important message on the value of freedom of expression. A plethora of cartoons, street art, and articles condemning the attack emerged over social media, and the press. One cartoonist illustrated the message with a diminutive figure of a terrorist holding a smoking rifle cowering in a corner surrounded by the biggest, and most effective of weapons; an array of pens aiming at him from the sky. Another cartoonist, from the Daily Telegraph responded in defiance with an illustration of a group of terrorists about to storm the offices of Charlie Hebdo and being warned, "Be careful, they may have pens..."
The French understand that being offended does not afford offended parties any protection from being offended. They do not compromise freedom of expression in the form of excessive political correctness. Nothing illustrates this more when Charlie Hebdo published its first edition after the massacre with a caricature of Muhammad on its front cover with the caption, "Tout est Pardonne'. Alas, media outlets failed to follow suit.
What followed, can only be described as a hypocritical act of betrayal by mainstream news sources when they failed to support Charlie Hebdo. Newspapers published only the top half of the front cover omitting the cartoon of Muhammad. SkyNews in the UK showed the ultimate cowardice in an act of self-censorship by cutting off Charlie Hebdo writer, Caroline Fourest in the middle of a live broadcast when she went to hold up the magazine cover for viewers. The news anchor even went on to "apologize for any offense caused."
It should be no surprise that France is the birthplace of enlightenment that eventually freed her from the reins of oppression by religion and tyrannous monarchies. It should be no surprise that writer, Evelyn Beatrice Hall summed up the French philosopher Voltaire's view of freedom of expression with "I disapprove with everything you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it." The staff at Charlie Hebdo died defending that right. Sadly, we betrayed them.
The rest of us should allow France and Charlie Hebdo to lead by example and not be pinned against the wall by the elephant in the room that is called religion. To deny ideology as a factor in oppression, war and terrorism is to disregard part of the problems of unshakable belief systems. On January, 7th, we were all Charlie Hebdo. Let's not stop there.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Creative Writing Workshop 1 : A "Lost" Experience
So here I was feeling like a high school kid suddenly daunted by being
assigned a phrase and three words: "Early Spring", "Tempted", "Dangling"
and "Lost". Our task was to write creatively for 10-15
minutes using those words and phrases in our prose. Writing poetry was also an option.
I wasn't used to on-the-spot assignments outside of English exams. I attributed my anxiety to those past high-school experiences. Even in college, we got to know to some of the material ahead of any exam. My own writing for pleasure usually included things that inspired me rather than assigned to me. My most productive literary musings were produced during the dark hours of insomnia rather than Friday afternoon and an impending happy hour beer after a long week. I certainly wasn't used to writing under the gun of time. But I was excited about my first creative-writing workshop. Despite being exited, anxiety momentarily filled me with dread as a blank sheet of writing paper and a pen stared back at me. However, age, inspiration, imagination, life experience and a willingness to share my despair in the form of poetry and prose took over from the momentary despair. I surprisingly found that the task in hand was relatively easy...
The rambling of my 10-15 minute hand-written blurb that includes three of the four words assigned in the workshop started ended up with a sad appraisal of how I thought about the past twenty years of my life. One of the things I have learned from writing is that it can be a stark insight into an unknown world within us. It is one that only becomes visual when we apply the written word to our innermost thoughts.
My work began:
I woke up one early spring morning with an alarming thought. Had I really slept through the seasons of my life? This morning was the dawn of a new experience -- an experience I'd never felt before. Where was I? And why all of a sudden in a very familiar environment did I feel lost?
I got up and looked in the mirror, but the reflection glaring back at me wasn't me. Somehow, I got lost on the way. I had been in a deep sleep for twenty years. What had I been doing and missing? I had been missing me... Yes, me. Somewhere, a part of me died. Most importantly, where was I and where was I going? Then it dawned on me. The early spring morning of my life had arrived.
Time dangles like Damocles' Sword above our heads. My awakening on the early spring morning was to know never to get lost again and to keep the dangling sword of time in sight, overhead and ahead...
I wasn't used to on-the-spot assignments outside of English exams. I attributed my anxiety to those past high-school experiences. Even in college, we got to know to some of the material ahead of any exam. My own writing for pleasure usually included things that inspired me rather than assigned to me. My most productive literary musings were produced during the dark hours of insomnia rather than Friday afternoon and an impending happy hour beer after a long week. I certainly wasn't used to writing under the gun of time. But I was excited about my first creative-writing workshop. Despite being exited, anxiety momentarily filled me with dread as a blank sheet of writing paper and a pen stared back at me. However, age, inspiration, imagination, life experience and a willingness to share my despair in the form of poetry and prose took over from the momentary despair. I surprisingly found that the task in hand was relatively easy...
The rambling of my 10-15 minute hand-written blurb that includes three of the four words assigned in the workshop started ended up with a sad appraisal of how I thought about the past twenty years of my life. One of the things I have learned from writing is that it can be a stark insight into an unknown world within us. It is one that only becomes visual when we apply the written word to our innermost thoughts.
My work began:
I woke up one early spring morning with an alarming thought. Had I really slept through the seasons of my life? This morning was the dawn of a new experience -- an experience I'd never felt before. Where was I? And why all of a sudden in a very familiar environment did I feel lost?
I got up and looked in the mirror, but the reflection glaring back at me wasn't me. Somehow, I got lost on the way. I had been in a deep sleep for twenty years. What had I been doing and missing? I had been missing me... Yes, me. Somewhere, a part of me died. Most importantly, where was I and where was I going? Then it dawned on me. The early spring morning of my life had arrived.
Time dangles like Damocles' Sword above our heads. My awakening on the early spring morning was to know never to get lost again and to keep the dangling sword of time in sight, overhead and ahead...
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| Add caption |
Monday, September 22, 2014
Closing Doors
her internal door slammed shut inside
after such a crushing surprise
she wanted to just run and hide
but sat staring crying inside
things weren't suppose to end this way
staring back at what the words say
"I owe you much it's fair to say.
I just can't love you, I'm afraid"
how can she go out and play
when she felt she just died today
she'll bury her hurt deep inside
they'll be moments to sit and cry
how she dances the night away
a few smiles keeps the pain at bay
she hides it well from the outside
only a few more hours to hide
she arrives home safely at long last
feelings brew behind an iron mask
as suppressed tears release inside
she feels as dark as the night outside
an iron door locks her love within
she'll never be the same again
residing in her living hell
hopefully time will break the spell
after such a crushing surprise
she wanted to just run and hide
but sat staring crying inside
things weren't suppose to end this way
staring back at what the words say
"I owe you much it's fair to say.
I just can't love you, I'm afraid"
how can she go out and play
when she felt she just died today
she'll bury her hurt deep inside
they'll be moments to sit and cry
how she dances the night away
a few smiles keeps the pain at bay
she hides it well from the outside
only a few more hours to hide
she arrives home safely at long last
feelings brew behind an iron mask
as suppressed tears release inside
she feels as dark as the night outside
an iron door locks her love within
she'll never be the same again
residing in her living hell
hopefully time will break the spell
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| Closed Door by Adrenoverse |
Monday, September 15, 2014
The Jewel and the Beast
A more distant and challenging beast that I had ever encountered laid in wait. She beckoned to me with her peak adorned with white lace, and green trimming around her base as well as a promise of a sight of her jewel that she reveals only once a century. The tall looming beast took my breath away. My senses were heightened once more.
I start to climb. She is gentle and graces me with warm encouraging breezes luring me with scenes unseen by those who are not seduced by her beauty. Her gift of a tiny oasis complete with spring and a dozen bright butterflies greet me. I pause for a while to reflect on this tiny slice of life isolated from the barren, but beautiful scape. I move on leaving this tiny island of life behind.
The gentle turns and twists in her trail grow vague and misleading. Her trail becomes more camouflaged with the rest of the scape and confusing the higher I climb. I've seen this game before. Ah yes: tread carefully with this new beast. The trail seems to disappear. I stop and look around her desolate landscape and notice how nothing sings, flies, or cries. I search for a patten in the strewn rocks and flakes up the moraine, but all I see is more of the same. I'm slightly unnerved and feel mildly threatened. She calms me with a little red flag. Ah ha! Now the game is on!
I scramble towards the red marker; small rocks, and stones sliding beneath my feet. The trail appears once more. I must watch her more carefully and go easier on her back. Her stoney trail to her jewel develops tighter and sharper turns. I'm developing an eye for her moves, but remain cautious sensing that she will present me with more challenges if I get too sure. And I was right.
The path falters and stops. I hear her gently rumble, but her warning quietens to a gentle whisper. Is she teasing me again? I hear desolate places can play tricks with deprived senses. It had been four to five hours since I had any contact with another person. It dawned on me that this was the longest time that I'd ever been without another human being around me. I found that invigorating, but also slightly unnerving. My senses were heightened as I viewed my surrounds much more carefully. The whispers grew louder, I stopped to listen, but couldn't make out words... I continued convinced that I was heading towards the voices rather than away. They must be on the trail.
I see another flag of red..., only this time she is talking... I call. The figure in red stops... I see her and she waves and indicates where the trail resumes... This cunning, but majestic beast has placed yet another obstacle that stops me in my tracts. A boulder field looms ahead. I scrambled across the boulders keeping the red clad figure within my sights. Eventually, after a relatively easy scramble over the rocks and boulders, my savior showed me how the trail resumed meandering up the side of the moraine and along its ridge only a little steeper... I smiled as I watched her glide down and disappear like an apparition into the field of boulders that had obscured my view of this stark, but beautiful beast's writhing trail.
I felt relieved and grateful of my mystery traveler. I wondered how I ever would have found the trail without her. Going forward, the beast's trail was easier to follow and she rewarded me with spectacular panoramic views that made me feel on top of the world. I climbed a little more as I wanted to reach the pile of rocks neatly stacked indicating the trail. My breath was being taken away by her dizzy heights of about 9,000 ft and I still had another 1,500ft of climbing to see her jewel -- a once in a life-time sighting. Breakfast was hours ago and it was more than time for refueling. I found a comfortable spot for my lunch of trail-mix, mozzarella cheese stick, and a protein bar. I again pondered at the desolate landscape and the fact that now I truly was alone on the mountain. I had never been so isolated from other life. I felt privilege to experience that. I surveyed her desolate, but serene landscape again and felt at peace. I had no anxiety from the possibility of running into other less accommodating beasts like mountain lions or bears which kept me on edge below the timberline.
Lunch was over, and I looked forward to finally catching a glimpse of the once in a life-time sighting of her jewel. I felt honored and privileged that she would reveal all. I came across her first snow layer left discarded like a lace scarf she'd thrown off from her peak that now laid before me at my feet. There were a few more turns and twists to navigate. I was close. Many before me had not even been allowed here without a battle against her unforgiving elements. Finally, I reached a thicker whiter mass and looked across the glacial whiteness. There was her jewel... a small piece of aqua blue stood out among the whiteness -- I had reached the jewel named Helen Lake and was witness to the first time in 50 years of her showing off this gem - a small pool of water in this dessert of a mountain peak. I was close to this amazing jewel as I could possible go without risking falling into one of her possibly hidden crevasses never to be seen or heard of again. She tempted me with this sight, but I withdrew back down the trail promising her I'd be back to climb her peak next year.
I start to climb. She is gentle and graces me with warm encouraging breezes luring me with scenes unseen by those who are not seduced by her beauty. Her gift of a tiny oasis complete with spring and a dozen bright butterflies greet me. I pause for a while to reflect on this tiny slice of life isolated from the barren, but beautiful scape. I move on leaving this tiny island of life behind.
The gentle turns and twists in her trail grow vague and misleading. Her trail becomes more camouflaged with the rest of the scape and confusing the higher I climb. I've seen this game before. Ah yes: tread carefully with this new beast. The trail seems to disappear. I stop and look around her desolate landscape and notice how nothing sings, flies, or cries. I search for a patten in the strewn rocks and flakes up the moraine, but all I see is more of the same. I'm slightly unnerved and feel mildly threatened. She calms me with a little red flag. Ah ha! Now the game is on!
I scramble towards the red marker; small rocks, and stones sliding beneath my feet. The trail appears once more. I must watch her more carefully and go easier on her back. Her stoney trail to her jewel develops tighter and sharper turns. I'm developing an eye for her moves, but remain cautious sensing that she will present me with more challenges if I get too sure. And I was right.
The path falters and stops. I hear her gently rumble, but her warning quietens to a gentle whisper. Is she teasing me again? I hear desolate places can play tricks with deprived senses. It had been four to five hours since I had any contact with another person. It dawned on me that this was the longest time that I'd ever been without another human being around me. I found that invigorating, but also slightly unnerving. My senses were heightened as I viewed my surrounds much more carefully. The whispers grew louder, I stopped to listen, but couldn't make out words... I continued convinced that I was heading towards the voices rather than away. They must be on the trail.
I see another flag of red..., only this time she is talking... I call. The figure in red stops... I see her and she waves and indicates where the trail resumes... This cunning, but majestic beast has placed yet another obstacle that stops me in my tracts. A boulder field looms ahead. I scrambled across the boulders keeping the red clad figure within my sights. Eventually, after a relatively easy scramble over the rocks and boulders, my savior showed me how the trail resumed meandering up the side of the moraine and along its ridge only a little steeper... I smiled as I watched her glide down and disappear like an apparition into the field of boulders that had obscured my view of this stark, but beautiful beast's writhing trail.
I felt relieved and grateful of my mystery traveler. I wondered how I ever would have found the trail without her. Going forward, the beast's trail was easier to follow and she rewarded me with spectacular panoramic views that made me feel on top of the world. I climbed a little more as I wanted to reach the pile of rocks neatly stacked indicating the trail. My breath was being taken away by her dizzy heights of about 9,000 ft and I still had another 1,500ft of climbing to see her jewel -- a once in a life-time sighting. Breakfast was hours ago and it was more than time for refueling. I found a comfortable spot for my lunch of trail-mix, mozzarella cheese stick, and a protein bar. I again pondered at the desolate landscape and the fact that now I truly was alone on the mountain. I had never been so isolated from other life. I felt privilege to experience that. I surveyed her desolate, but serene landscape again and felt at peace. I had no anxiety from the possibility of running into other less accommodating beasts like mountain lions or bears which kept me on edge below the timberline.
Lunch was over, and I looked forward to finally catching a glimpse of the once in a life-time sighting of her jewel. I felt honored and privileged that she would reveal all. I came across her first snow layer left discarded like a lace scarf she'd thrown off from her peak that now laid before me at my feet. There were a few more turns and twists to navigate. I was close. Many before me had not even been allowed here without a battle against her unforgiving elements. Finally, I reached a thicker whiter mass and looked across the glacial whiteness. There was her jewel... a small piece of aqua blue stood out among the whiteness -- I had reached the jewel named Helen Lake and was witness to the first time in 50 years of her showing off this gem - a small pool of water in this dessert of a mountain peak. I was close to this amazing jewel as I could possible go without risking falling into one of her possibly hidden crevasses never to be seen or heard of again. She tempted me with this sight, but I withdrew back down the trail promising her I'd be back to climb her peak next year.
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| Mount Shasta |
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