Finding a Reason t en Rest

Steps of heavily clothed feet on rocky paths—a ritardando that lasts from the packing to the unfolding of tents—traversing terrain that tears at the sole. Laces come untied often, losing grip like moist hands that should be holding the handles of walking poles. Socks soak easily with sweat but especially river water that seeps in while fording. Feet callus, and where they fail to callus, they blister.

And I weary. But reclining next to a tame fire, I find ephemeral rest—laces untied, shoes on the ground, socks stripped, naked feet propped on a log. A portable bowl full of soup in my hands, the rim gracing my lips, and I take sips the way a squirrel holds a nut. I finish and want more. Retirement is inside a temporary abode of polyester, braced by bent metal sticks that threaten to snap. I’m enveloped by the pocket that carries me through a tranquil darkness, asleep until the circadian hand empties me out into daylight.

Waking, straining to see the reason I am here, aching. I strap the burdens I need to my back and begin the same steps of yesterday, only further along the path. Numbness spreads from my callused feet to my splinted shins, then to cinched hips. My necessities weigh on me as I still wonder why, staring at the path. As I ascend, coming closer to the final pass, my soul is nearly heavy enough to slip out of its fleshly encasing. Five switchbacks short, I stop. Breathing like wind blowing across broken glass. I survey the path behind me and notice the valley, lush and green, lasting for tens of miles. I went through that. But now I see the birds soaring overhead, the moose hidden in the bushes alongside the path, the chipmunks scurrying with fat cheeks, and the palette of blooming wildflowers. I see it now.

I turn around and face the pass, finishing my ascent. I step off the path, lay down my pack, and enter into rest. 35 Creative Essay