Switchbacks, Mar. 6

First daffodil, first forsythia
(i'm far from home, south of the familiar)
with wasps and buds all coming out
to see the sun.

Break time leads some of us to the lake,
and a stroll, and to the chapel.
Nearby, a labyrinth, the rings and folds
turn and turn again, stepping closer
to the center, then further away,
irregular but constant, a steady
turning, turning, closer, farther,
then taking us within.

I step outside the charmed circle,
and head back to the bridge, still
time enough to explore upstream.
A sign, like one behind the chapel,
"Luke Trail;" four hills
(they call them mountains here)
around the camp's lake, the others
necessarily Matthew, Mark, John.

Leaving the main road, the beaten path,
Luke's way is still clear enough,
blazed with blue. It meanders
at first, but starts to weave
as the way grows steep and sharp,
exposed rock getting more and more common,
trees a bit sparser, trailbed shallower.

Back, and forth, with
short staggering straight stretches,
making you feel the value of switchbacks,
aside from the environmental, erosional
reason to keep to the indirect path.
A final push, a gasping set of pauses, and then
the top.
A cairn of stones, a pause to set your own,
and after air, a calmer sense of looking
for the view, the glance back below.

But the top is angled back; to get
closer to the precipice above the lake
you go down, slipping, rollfootedly down,
an imperfect view finally, and a long way up
to go back the way you came.
I look down longingly, looking back up wearily.

There's a blue blaze, though, far to your left.
The long swing across the slope,
crawling back away from the lake,
into the valley, then a switchback, you head
straight, briskly towards the now ringing dinner bell.
It rounds again, and back, away;
this will not do, and you see downslope
the next coil, and think "Short cut"?
That will not do, either, and you walk on.
The wildflowers hedge you onto the trodden way,
their tiny vulnerability no match for
size 14 shoes tromping along.
Keep to the path.

C.S. Lewis wrote of hiking in the Alps,
late in an afternoon, looking down and seeing,
almost able to drop a rock on the chalet
where they would sleep, just hundreds of feet
away. Not distant? It would be another five miles
of brisk hiking, and after dark before they
found their way to hearth and temporary home.
You think you are close, and you are,
but there is still a long way to go,
that cannot be avoided and might be enjoyed.
This makes sense to me now.

As does the labyrinth, which i passed again
on the final bight, and down and out,
to the valley floor at the hill's,
mountain's foot,
behind the stone chapel, again past the
landscaped, level labyrinth,
closing a circle.
You can always just walk across it,
and know what it is to stand in the centerplace,
but you will not feel it
(not the same way)
and it is not wise to do so.

Nor is it kind. Stay on the path,
frustrating though the switchbacks may be;
it is for the health of the land,
for those who follow in your footsteps,
for your aging ankles,
for the health of your soul.
Follow the path, all the way
to the center.
The outlined tradition, the blue blazes,
the ringing of the dinner bell,
will lead you to where you need to be.

When I return, not really late, having
completed the circuit of the "Luke Trail,"
someone asks, "Did you see the daffodils?"
Yes, I saw.