Ash clots our breath
and falls in feathers of carbon,
blots out mountain and meadow,
thickens the world
into a swirling softness.
The sun stares a bloodshot eye.
Stay inside, officials warn
but we shrug on our backpacks,
hike into the Cascades,
fish for cutthroat in Upper Wildcat,
hook trout with every cast
of muddler minnow and wooly bugger.
My son and I swing the steep face to Derrick lake
using hemlock and fir as trapezes
to see a shore hardly walked by humans.
Goat, bear, marten tracks pattern the sand.
Grey haze flattens the landscape.
Green melts to grime; blue disappears in gloom.
I am 57, but forget my age
and scale a waterfall on the way back to Hatchet,
tiny toeholds slick with algae
and a toss of freezing water over my body.
Fright zips with electricity,
leaves me high on adrenaline even smoke cannot quench.
An hour across granite boulders that tilt and grumble
under our weight. We collapse in a patch of huckleberry
stuffing our mouths with sweet blue fruit. Linger
in forest duff, forget the blotted sun.
The incense of cedar rises over the scent of smoke.
I relax in my love for my son.
I want a grandchild to watch an osprey
pluck a cutthroat from lake Caroline,
but fear the earth cannot sustain this dream
when alpine meadow burns
and waterfalls dry to skull and rib.
Back at camp a dragon fly shines
emerald eyes, flicks its crystalline wings
in a song I will not forget.
We know we should leave this place,
but everywhere, half in shadow, the world beckons.
READ MORE
Setting fires to control wildfires: A profound change takes place in Washington state [Anchorage Daily News]
Think modern wildfires are bad? Fires once burned up to 36 times more of the West, study says [Sacramento Bee]
Victoria A. Rotton is a psychotherapist in private practice. She specializes in working with clients traumatized by sexual abuse. Before becoming a psychotherapist, Victoria was one of the first women firefighters in the nation and worked for the Seattle Fire Department for 13 years. Victoria has been writing poetry for about twenty years but is just now trying to get published. Victoria finds the act of sending out poems to journals to be about as fulfilling as billing insurance companies, which is part of her job as a psychotherapist.
