Pick Up Your Pen Contest
Northern Arizona Book Festival
Cat Weidinger
Standing Invitation
by Cat Weidinger
If you and I
have talked about hiking,
then we’ve talked about going down.
And if we’ve talked about going down,
then we’ve most certainly talked about going up.
Down.
Submerged under the rim of the Canyon,
a few substantial comforts on your back
and fire in your soles,
snaking your way along a path
that begs for your attention,
not because it’s haughty or even because it cares for you
(although it does appreciate your penchant for light treading),
but because it’s heard too much—
too much ignorance,
too much denial,
too much death.
An inverted mountain,
a jawbreaker of walls,
exposed layers licked by the tongue of time.
Knees pop and crack and take on a life of their own,
coaching each other through each stride,
reminding one another that the cold therapy of the Colorado awaits,
but always cut off, mid-cheer to accept the baton,
the tag-you’re-it slap,
to begin the hard work again,
over and over,
again and again,
down and down.
Up.
Sweat approaches the skin’s starting line,
gamed for the gun,
eager to spring into pores
as soon as the heavy breathing begins,
as soon as you step out of the vehicle
and with grateful heart, heavy pack and light burden,
you acknowledge the full plate of mountain set before you.
It takes an elevation gain of thousands of feet,
double-digit miles
and a constant reminder of going up,
with panoramic views of the mountain town below and beyond
to introduce yourself to a one-night campsite,
a pocket in the mountain to end the up,
to wrap up the day,
tucking and sealing the mental pictures of dirt, rock, aspen, pine and breath
into the envelope of the mind,
waiting for a future day of the mundane to slice it open,
to catch a breath,
to stretch your neck,
to gaze up.
Down and up,
up and down,
a vertical banquet for the unassuaged soul.
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