Aimee and I enjoyed hiking--especially in National Parks. Our National Park map still hangs in our basement, framed and laminated with colorful push pins for each member of the family. The pins indicate where we've been.
In 2000, Aimee and I took a trek to Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as "Disneyland of National Parks," meaning it's rather crowded and overflowing with RVs. Yes, we drove to Yellowstone in my tiny Honda Civic (and that, my friends, was quite a road trip). We brought most of our food in a big cooler. We camped for a week and found plenty of less-traveled paths (with the help of a few nice park rangers).
Aimee had a nose for water. She climbed onto countless rocks in the middle of mountain streams while I stood on the shore, exhorting her to be safe. Here she is in a common moment of contemplation. In the scrapbook, I wrote a simple note on a Post-it: the road less-traveled.
And that was Aimee's life as I knew her. She never took the easy path--helping start a grant-funded mental health program for kids in local schools, coaching high school sports (and later her sons in soccer and basketball), spending a week each summer at Anytown (a diversity/leadership camp for teens). She even listened to all of my crazy dreams and laughed when she found scraps of paper scribbled with story ideas.
I like this picture more than any other from Yellowstone. I like to imagine what she was thinking, or maybe that she wasn't thinking at all--just letting the water pass beneath her. It's a peaceful thought.
Authentic historical reenactor in buckskins (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
One of the hardest realities for me is that almost anything can trigger a story or poem. I don’t have to go looking for something. A prompt will always find me. I’m writing this post instead of my usual one for a reason.
I’m out of town for three days. Yes, it’s true. I went to attend a rendezvous: the annual Mountain Man Rendezvous here in Montana. It’s been many years since I attended such an event, and I find a great sense of anticipation toward this one.
In case you don’t know what a Mountain Man Rendezvous is, I’ll give you the quick skinny on one. Take pioneering/explorer types from the modern world; dress them in period 18th Century mountain man costuming; hand them black powder rifles and hand axes; and tell them to find out who shoots the best and throws the straightest, and you’ll have the makings of a Rendezvous.
Sprinkle in skills test for both men and women from those days from history, and you have a great weekend. When you combine the whole thing with one town’s annual celebration of town-hood and the like, you have a free-for-all from two countries. Yep, those mountain men and women will be coming down from Canada, too. It’s going to be great!
Therefore, in honor of our weekend activities, I thought I’d put a few poems prompted by the coming events to hold everyone over until I return on Monday. I hope you enjoy the fare here during my absence. Be sure to leave a comment to let me know if I’ve hit the target or not.
It’s All in the Wrist
How many westerns have passed
Behind my mind’s eye, pointing out
The Throw–the flight–the target
Smacked a solid THUNK!
Tomahawk embedded, buried
To mid-point up the blade?
How many times did baby bro
Recreate those scenes, practicing
The Throw, closer to center each time,
Always taking a step back to lengthen pace?
Did he have plans for needing an axe
Or just a need to prove himself to self?
Watching both men and women take
Places on the line, raise arm, tomahawk
Shaft gripped with purpose, steady–strong,
I see that need to prove to self, to others
That history can repeat itself, can come alive
To find a place now, appreciated and honored.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Slow Antique, Still Deadly
Crack!
Black powder report,
Smoke drifts from lock’s contact,
Sulphur permeates with each repeat.
So goes the rifle shoot out
Made for mountain men,
Crack!
© Claudette J. Young 2012
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Beautiful.
I definitely need to go back.
Absolutely breath-taking! I love this picture...thanks for sharing!
I'm glad you have such a wealth of wonderful memories to draw from.
Love the picture, very Aimee. About the bits of scrap paper she found, the funniest one had to be when she found the crumbled paper under her pillow as she woke up in the morning and thought it was a love note and opened it to find it had some gruesome details for one of your horror stories. She thought it was so funny when she was retelling me the story and events and added, "that's what happens when your married to a horror writer". I love that story, I love that memory.
Sara - I'm just glad she never said "horrible writer". ;)
A beautiful picture! Very peaceful.