Camp 39

It’s not really a camp, merely a shelter made of logs,
one of many along the Appalachian trail
as it winds its way from Maine to Georgia.
We are just a couple of city dudes trying to get away--
away from all the traffic, phones, and faxes.

As we walk along the trail, the trees form a canopy
with sunlight filtering down through the leaves,
jogging memories of stained glass windows in a cathedral.
We climb an outcropping of rock high atop Mount Greylock
to behold autumn foliage covering the forest like flames of a wildfire.

Breathless after that climb, we decide to stop for the night.
The old geezer at the fishing camp where we started
said to watch out for bears and wildcats and such.
The smirk on his wrinkled face said
he was just joshing a couple of tenderfoot hikers...
or was he?

Dead wood for a fire and water from the stream
serve for cooking a dehydrated meal from our backpacks.
Then we curl up in the bedrolls and listen
to squirrels (and what else?) scurrying among the leaves
until the music of the stream sings us to sleep.

Morning greets us with the sight of breath floating from chilled lips.
Bang the boots on the bench to knock off the frost.
Thank God for long johns and thermal socks!
After a breakfast of powdered milk and eggs, it’s time to start back.
Tonight, real food, a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep
in a soft bed with clean sheets!