Ridgewalker
New member
I celebrate myself, the Ridgewalker, and sing of us, Marty and Tuco, and of winter hiking. And what we assumed, you may assume too, for every list belonging to me as good belongs to you. My trail, every granule of powder, was born here in wintry magic on Zealand road.
Every atom of our blood flowed to warm digits for dear life. I, now twenty-one years old in perfect health begin, hoping to climb until death. Snowmobiles and cross country skiers, and wandering old men in abeyance, as we passed along.
We pull away from it all and ‘climb we must’ up Hale Brook. Traction is but disregarded for the path. Oh prudent Marty, t’was right all along. Snowshoes for Tuco and Ridgewalker, for we rebelled as bare booters, ah for a brief time. Through snowy glory we ascended into mountain Christmas. How glorious and pure is the snow!
Our mountain is like Tuco’s beard, so dark and rich, yet laced in tinges of white. Mystery commands these mountains in which to seek solace and fun. For we grown men must have time to play a whole ton.
I, the poet hear the clatter and creaking of birches, who knows if they shall fall, or least lurch? We meet a politician, Jeb Bradley, who averted glory with a cordial first name, and his blessed companions and my, what fortunate lot to be joined by one fair maiden.
Down we went into the forest and hauled away, for I the poet flew on bum and leg. Before we knew, in our idle chatter and isolation, in personal agility, we were out. Away so briefly, it fleeted like my own speed, but truly such are memories. For one day our memories will be fed from great moments of climbing.
With apologetic compliments to Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"
Every atom of our blood flowed to warm digits for dear life. I, now twenty-one years old in perfect health begin, hoping to climb until death. Snowmobiles and cross country skiers, and wandering old men in abeyance, as we passed along.
We pull away from it all and ‘climb we must’ up Hale Brook. Traction is but disregarded for the path. Oh prudent Marty, t’was right all along. Snowshoes for Tuco and Ridgewalker, for we rebelled as bare booters, ah for a brief time. Through snowy glory we ascended into mountain Christmas. How glorious and pure is the snow!
Our mountain is like Tuco’s beard, so dark and rich, yet laced in tinges of white. Mystery commands these mountains in which to seek solace and fun. For we grown men must have time to play a whole ton.
I, the poet hear the clatter and creaking of birches, who knows if they shall fall, or least lurch? We meet a politician, Jeb Bradley, who averted glory with a cordial first name, and his blessed companions and my, what fortunate lot to be joined by one fair maiden.
Down we went into the forest and hauled away, for I the poet flew on bum and leg. Before we knew, in our idle chatter and isolation, in personal agility, we were out. Away so briefly, it fleeted like my own speed, but truly such are memories. For one day our memories will be fed from great moments of climbing.
With apologetic compliments to Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"
