Just Upstream from Rainbow Pool

     Now I'm way out where

     nowhere lives,

     and another storm-beaten road,

     slams the door in my face.

     I suppose I’ll head to Merced River,

     to sneak out into the wilderness,

     but I am stopped,

     by a Yosemite toll house,

     demanding $35 to pass.

     All is not lost, though,

     as the Ranger woman tells me,

     that all the camping

     is back behind,

     dispersed nearly everywhere,

     but mostly somewhere,

     speckled back there,

     throughout the miles in my wake.

     I turn around again.

          I find a day-use area,

          Rainbow Pool is the name worn,

          and where the bridge crosses,

          the active

          South Fork Tuolumne River,

          I head upstream

          through thick foliage,

          bramble arms open and inviting,

          hoping for a nice,

          flat,

          spot to support,

          my makeshift home.

          To my dismay,

          across the river,

          which is not crossable,

          a glowing oasis,

          the perfect spot,

          a sandy beach,

          or possibly a stone shore,

          but flat, nonetheless.

          And I am relieved,

          and am solaced to find shelter,

          before the sun hunkers down

          behind snowcapped peaks,

          as the solar clock strikes dusk.

          I turn around again.

               Now on the other side,

               of the South Fork Tuolumne.

               It’s galloping rapids,

               of snowmelt and springtime rains,

               eases my soul,

               and I am alive again,

               cleansed of

               all that metropolitan grime,

               from traffic jams,

               and wits whittled down,

               jamming me up,

               with sludge and oil slicks,

               all of that

               is now wiped clean.

               But the bushwhacking is thick,

               and the sheer stone slants

               suggest all fours

               —extremities all put to use—

               as the weight of a pack

               tangos with gravity,

               luring me toward injury.

               But then it arrives.

               And my truck is just up there,

               across the 120,

               and I am down here,

               alone with the river,

               while the high country,

               sheathed in snow,

               churns somewhere off that way,

               over there,

               Just upstream

               from Rainbow Pool.

                    Camp is set,

                    fire pit built,

                    driftwood gathered,

                    cooking space solidified,

                    polyester place of residence,

                    is set standing,

                    and a rope slung over a branch,

                    southeast of camp,

                    with a rock tied to one side,

                    a scent-filled bag on the other,

                    assuring that I am not robbed,

                    by a midnight critter.

                    There I sit in silence,

                    tucked between the Sierras’ toes.

                    An Osprey flashes by,

                    pulling at the strings of my sight,

                    soaring low with, perhaps,

                    a meal on its mind,

                    streaming southeast

                    just upstream

                    from Rainbow Pool.

               Now on the other side,

               of the South Fork Tuolumne.

               It’s galloping rapids,

               of melted snow

               and springtime rains

               ease my soul,

               and I am alive again,

               cleansed of

               all that metropolitan grime

               from traffic jams

               and wits whittled down,

               jamming me up,

               with sludge and oil slicks.

               All of that

               is now wiped clean.

               The bushwhacking is thick,

               and the sheer stone slants

               suggest all fours

               —extremities all put to use—

               as the weight of a pack

               tangos with gravity,

               luring me toward injury.

               But then it arrives.

               And my truck is just up there,

               across the 120,

               and I am down here,

               alone with the river,

               while the high country,

               sheathed in snow,

               churns somewhere

               off that way,

               over there.

               Just upstream

               from Rainbow Pool.