Breadruns

nestled into a fold of Yosemite’s rugged peaks
clusters of cabins and a lodge
soft smoke furling from snow-caked chimneys
touring up this closed road of avalanches and cliffs and rockfall
following its faithfully winding energy line
swishing skate skis, chuffing hikers, buzzing snowcats
to this quiet pocket in the snow, a faint webwork of footprints
a scale model crafted from a mountain child’s winter imagination
windows glow gold with the murmer of
elvyn and miniature under a vast snowflaking sky

morning comes slowly, first grey and somber
we fall out of warm beds into ski pants, gulp coffee
out into the mystery of dawn too bleary to find a route
stumbling uphill one foot in front of the other
chugging forward like unmoored boats in the fog

then in gold flashes of icy wind
the sun brings that bluebird morning sky
mounds of fresh snow sparkle diamond-cut sugar
breezes blow the glitter off trees over rabbit tracks

beyond the gingerbread rooftops
towering summits smoke spindrift
summon us upwards by our city-weary souls
awake now we wrestle up their unforgiving flanks
pushing deeper into miles of powder-muted beyond

legs burning, lungs bursting, every cell on fire
dumping steam from vents in our jackets and helmets
soaked in sweat and melting snow
a chimney myself now, finally I earn my charge downhill

through a slope of trackless powder I streak
trees grabbing at me like pickpockets in alleys
montages of Warren Miller and avalanches flash
the slope suddenly levels into a meadow of glaring white

I cannot stop,
laughing and tired through the trees, knees crumble
trying to snowplow,
bleeding off speed on burms and chunks of old crust

flailing, I faceplant

and for a moment
I disappear in the snow
into the great white nothing
that beckoned me here in the first place

President’s Day weekend, Tioga Pass Lodge, 2007