Bubbles Trail
Near the end of the trail
Around Jordan Pond
In Acadia, there is
A seeming avalanche of boulders
That defaces the side of one
Of the Bubbles.
On the way up,
I followed a wife
Who lingered behind
To keep an eye on me.
I followed her footsteps
As my legs and feet,
Balanced on huge rocks,
Sought ground
But found little among the
Looming granite figures.
I was breathless and scared
But determined to
Mirror her way to the top.
The ascent was difficult;
My camera hung heavily from my neck,
My fingers balanced painfully on boulders,
And my body wavered unsteadily
As I cursed the metal lenses, the arthritic fingers,
And the Gabapentin haze.
It was the descent I really dreaded
I always have
But she would be there to
Guide me to a qualified calm.
I asked midway to the top
If I could follow her down,
And suddenly,
Out of this winged Siren’s mouth
Came a dirge of a thousand volts,
“Oh, we’re not going down.
We’re taking another trail at the top.”
Breathe….
I told myself I was not going to die
That day on a trail called Bubbles.
This newly-demonized woman
Became haloed once more by
Flagging down a woman
Whose grandchild would lead me to
The Promised Land.
All I had to do was follow
The young girl who plotted her course
Down the mountain in flip flops.
I mirrored each step,
Placed my feet in her path
And never raised my eyes
To face my fear.
From a distance, the twin mountains
Look like Bubbles,
But the real ones are the granite boulders
That slid down this mountain over time,
Disguising the trail and
Making this hike a mysterious
Maze of monoliths.
