Kenilworth
New member
I worked for the past week on a trip report which eventually grew to eight or ten pages... but never said what I was trying to say. The following doesn't quite touch it either, but is closer, and a lot easier to read.
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He moves in the woods like a dog. I move with the grace of a falling tree onto a lady?s head. He sees at his pace far more than I see at mine. At his pace I see almost nothing. A week of keeping up, on the side of the big mountain. He found the pond, a jewel cut by unknowable hands. He found the massive foundation stone, tossed aside by a hungry bear. He found the baby vultures, snow-white and nested at the base of the sandstone. He found the ginseng, ?There?s a four-prong, there?s two more, three, five more.? He found the sulfur-shelf mushroom and the wild strawberries and the onions which we had happily with our dinners. He saw the storm cloud coming up from Ash Camp. He found the cave, unknown to Caving but known intimately by some tenacious explorer who has dug, dived, climbed, and squeezed into its thousands long and hundreds deep. He said, ?Look.? when he saw the bear, standing sideways to us in the mist, which moved away into mist and was gone. He moves like a dog. Stopping to pant for a moment, he trots on, not searching, but seeing.
I stop sometimes to rest. I search in the mist and see nothing. I search the ground and see only a gauze of virility. I search the pond and see cycle upon cycle of invisible olive-tan life. I search the trees and see a rustle from a long time back, and an intent lean toward the south that makes me start? I search the mist again and see the shadow of the bear. It is not the bear but the shadow of the man. He is at work, his sons and daughters with him, his life all around him and the big mountain all inside his life. I hear his pig scream in eighteen thirty-four.
When I catch up my brother is at the miserable tiny entrance he has found. We don?t know it yet but the thousands and hundreds are before us. He is holding a camera and grins, ?You go first.?
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He moves in the woods like a dog. I move with the grace of a falling tree onto a lady?s head. He sees at his pace far more than I see at mine. At his pace I see almost nothing. A week of keeping up, on the side of the big mountain. He found the pond, a jewel cut by unknowable hands. He found the massive foundation stone, tossed aside by a hungry bear. He found the baby vultures, snow-white and nested at the base of the sandstone. He found the ginseng, ?There?s a four-prong, there?s two more, three, five more.? He found the sulfur-shelf mushroom and the wild strawberries and the onions which we had happily with our dinners. He saw the storm cloud coming up from Ash Camp. He found the cave, unknown to Caving but known intimately by some tenacious explorer who has dug, dived, climbed, and squeezed into its thousands long and hundreds deep. He said, ?Look.? when he saw the bear, standing sideways to us in the mist, which moved away into mist and was gone. He moves like a dog. Stopping to pant for a moment, he trots on, not searching, but seeing.
I stop sometimes to rest. I search in the mist and see nothing. I search the ground and see only a gauze of virility. I search the pond and see cycle upon cycle of invisible olive-tan life. I search the trees and see a rustle from a long time back, and an intent lean toward the south that makes me start? I search the mist again and see the shadow of the bear. It is not the bear but the shadow of the man. He is at work, his sons and daughters with him, his life all around him and the big mountain all inside his life. I hear his pig scream in eighteen thirty-four.
When I catch up my brother is at the miserable tiny entrance he has found. We don?t know it yet but the thousands and hundreds are before us. He is holding a camera and grins, ?You go first.?
