Yosemite-Land

These started as notes but turned into a poem.

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The bus through the valley swayed under the weight
Of the morbidly obese and the kids with sticky fingers
And dirty screens.
Through a haze of Deet and sunblock
A Man yelled at the driver because the meadow
Wasn’t close enough to El Cap.

The cars and the lines and the fast food and the AC lounge and
Wifi and sorority girls and shirtless boys with too much gel and abs
And sandwiches and chips and $1.76 beers almost made it better
Until the lawyers in suits,
Yes, lawyers in suits in the Valley,
Lawyers in suits cut the line because the ranger lifted the rope
And said the legal team had to get to a meeting.
I tried to stay quiet, I did
But the thought of Muir and the wildness won.
It was something stupid,
A joke about lawyers to the back of the line and the
Awkward silence was worth it
Because it was silence.

We escaped the valley in the early morning light, leaving
The crowded parking lots and the sweaty summer masses,
We hiked up, slowly
Higher, with loud breaths and heavy steps,
Weighed down by packs,
Feeling lighter with every step.

Then the tight grip on metal cables
Dirty with a grey black film
And covered in the fear sweat of thousands.
Don’t look down and
Looking down seeing myself falling
Bouncing off the cold
White Sierra granite.

Alone on Half Dome, just four of us
With the valley far below and the lines of people
Looking up at what seems so far away and out
Of reach but it’s there, past waterfalls, ice cold rivers,
A skinny bear cub looking for an abandoned piece of food or
Maybe his mom.

It’s there with tired legs, sugary food, not enough sleep,
Mosquitoes, a small snake in the river swimming with its
Mouth open just above the surface.

It’s there after finding shade under
A giant redwood as the river dries off my skin
And sandy feet and pink shoulders.

It’s there after seeing my son’s smile,
The same smile as the
6-year-old boy leading us to the
Sensory table at preschool
To show us piles of dirt
And it’s the same joy 
As he shows us that branches grow
From the middle of the tree
Not the outer bark,
From the core as they reach out
Up from the heart,
And it’s right there.

He stands next to me and
We are too close to the edge
With my wife’s curses
Bouncing down the valley.
He stands next to me
All wiry muscle and long limbs
And sequoia brown skin
With a faint scent of weed
And wildness
And he stands next to me,
Reaching out,
Reaching out,
From the core.

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The postcard project is ongoing. I’m still painting, and enjoying it. So, if you’d like a postcard, DM me your address and I’ll send you one.

I recently sent a drawing to a friend and fellow substack-er and she wrote about it. It’s a nice reminder to take a walk, and the timing of it all made me happy. Give it a read here:

Let’s take a walk

As always, thanks for reading.