Rattlesnake Canyon
I. Hibernaculum
Anvil sky
Hammer split basalt ridges
Spark of rising sun
Serpent trickle of winter’s water
You came winding across defined lands
You are entering public lands – Please leave them clean.
You are leaving public lands – Come back soon!
You are entering Warm Springs Native Reservation -Day Use Permit required.
Land doesn’t care.
What is here now? Twisted lava hills
What was here before? Seabed
What before that?
Lava bed
And before?
Seabed
et in saecula saeculorum
for ages unto ages
So you set up your camp on the Deschutes
on the same site
under the same bush you camped at last year
which provided shelter from the arclight
summer sun
And you sit in the green folding chair you bought at Fred Meyer
when you were buying camping gear
so you could take your kids on their first trip
that you later sat on at endless soccer games
watching a parade of young girls
who are gone
and you hope that no one pulls into the empty site next to you
In the morning, you hike up Rattlesnake Canyon
you are dressed in layers to defeat the early Spring chill
orange jacket, red scarf, yellow hat
you think that you must look something like a monk
you are seeking a place to meditate
a ledge in the sun
a place to sit
to write
Your breath still rages
after your climb
But, Oh!
How different from your hopes
You scan the horizon
rising sun ignites golden
hills, road, river glints silver,
no, green,
it glints green,
Cloud
sound of wind
bird calls
You are reluctant to pick up the pen
you fear what lives in the caverns
Coward
you vessel of fears
you small man
infinitesimal speck
less than a tiny rock
among uncountable millions
on this hillside
You imagine
rattlesnakes
uncurling
from their dens
emerging
in the morning sun
writhing
in the shadows
coiling
Danger shapes
you cannot see
until your hand
anticipating rock
finds
smooth striking death
Last night
you slept for twelve hours
your dreams, thick with menace
peopled with anxious images
insects
strange faces
You, alone,
father gone
kids gone
banal traumas
you are not – singular
In their caverns
the rattlesnakes
entwine in chill embrace
hoarding summer sperm
held in secret place
ready for birth
when the sun comes
generation after generation
again and again
לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא
leʻalam ulʻalmey ʻalmaya
Forever and ever, world without end!
II. Contrapunt
Rattlesnake Canyon
when I visited in the Fall
when sun lay heavy on
the stone
When sage crackled
in sere light
When rock sharp
was too hot to touch
Now
spring green
in the cleft
knife glint
wet gash
a small stream flows
The onomatopoeia of its burble
the winter riffle
contra the Deschutes
it will disappear
III. Bikes
I thought Rattlesnake Canyon would be empty
so early in the year
the tail end of February
with spring not come
But I thought wrong
the campsites are full of fishermen
I have a pole too
but I’m no fisherman
Fishermen are dedicated
they do not mind the cold nights
nor the short days
they stalk the wily trout
They do not keep the fish they catch
they fish for the joy of the stalk
the settle of the fly just so
on the eddyline
the electric jolt
of the strike
the gentle release
of a sleek glimmering beast
to flowing green water
Each morning
the same man passes my site
accompanied by his young daughter
He looks to be in his thirties
she about eleven
They both ride mountain bikes
festooned with poles, nets, and other gear
his bike has huge fat tires
he describes to me excitedly
how great it rolls through sand
he is a surfer as well as a fisherman
They ride off at dawn
then return late laughing
they slide in fast
before the gathering darkness
I do not range far
the river is right behind my tent
Why wander?
Anyway, I’m too sore for bike riding
I prefer just to walk
down the nearby bank
I don’t tell them
but I have a black-iron frying pan
and a small jar of oil
if I catch a trout
I’m going to cook him
until his skin is crispy
and his flesh still moist
pulls easily from his bones
IV. Two Roadbeds and a River
Rattlesnake Canyon intersects two roadbeds and a river
The first roadbed is a rail line
on the east bank of the river
The SP&S Railroad
Trains run all night
They whistle to the rattlesnakes
“Heeeeere we are!”
“We are a great steel snake!”
“Heeeeere we are!”
The second roadbed is to the west
It used to be a rail line
the Oregon Trunk Railroad
it was the enemy of the SP&S
but I guess it lost the war
Now it is now a road for fishermen
let’s call it Trout Road
cars rumble down it all day
“We’re coming trout!” they say
Between the two roads runs a river
it has a name too
the Deschutes
and a voice
It says, “I love you”
Its voice never stops
“Love, love, love”
Sometimes quiet
“love love love”
Sometimes loud
“Love, Love, Love!”
It is love forever
Last Fall
I sat naked in the river
the water flowed past me
for hours every day
my body was caressed by green love
Now the water is too cold for that
So I stand in my drysuit
fishing for trout
Underwater the trout speak
but I cannot hear them
This is what I think the trout say
“We won’t bite your hook!”
I don’t care
I am here for the love
the cold love of spring
A greencoldlingering love
A slipflowingliquid love
A love inexorable
A love supreme
The river flows like tears
I stand waist-deep
most the day
V. Mack’s Canyon
Leaving Rattlesnake Canyon behind
I drive to Road’s End Camp
A locked gate in Mack’s Canyon
I park next to a silver-grey Lexus
sinister looking
without license plates
Whose car?
Why leave it here?
forlorn
I set out walking from Roads’ End
following the persistent trace
of the old Oregon Trunk Line
The steel rails are gone
the spine of the rail line
the metal had value I guess
but the wooden ties remain
broken ribs linger long
in scent heavy creosote
See! The long swooping bend
declining into golden haze
fading afternoon light
I’ll walk in the sun
continue till it disappears
After some miles, I pause.
I can’t walk fast enough
to escape the descending shadow
It’s more than I care to do
I stand mid-way between day and encroaching night
I want to capture this scene
I dig into my pack to find a notebook and pencil
Rummaging at the bottom,
my hand finds a small card.
Puzzled, I take it out
It is my father’s drivers license
I must have tossed in my pack
when I closed his apartment last Spring
His gaze from the license is gentle and proud
He was pleased to pass his driving test in his old age
I fished all morning for trout
I didn’t catch a thing
but at one point I received a strike on my line
My first thought was to call him.
“Dad! A fish bit my line.”
We found excitement in small things.
VI. al-Fajr
In the chill before another dawn
You climb the escarpments of Rattlesnake Canyon directly above your camp
You follow a deer trail to this high point – reassured by the peppercorn signs of their passing.
You look back often.
It is steep – the ground unstable
You have come up a ways.
How shall you get back down?
And if you lose your way, what then?
You are careful not to place your hands on the tongues of basalt
grey in the predawn light
they are sheltering places for the eponymous denizens of this place
though you know that they are not active in the cold
that they sleep
coiled in masses
among the lava bands.
Still, you fear them.
The strike, the fang, the venom.
But you find your place
to sit again.
You watch the last of the weekend campers
packing their cars.
They will soon disappear, rattling along the gravel road
chased by dust devil jinn
It is good
The solitude
Far below
you see the blue dot of your tent
your home in Rattlesnake Canyon
sheltered under a thorny bush
at a bend on the Deschutes.
Now, on this hellfire ash heap,
you watch the sun rise again over grey hills
suddenly they are gold
you shield your eyes from the straight light
You think of the Surat al-Fajr -The Verses of The Dawn
Nay! When the earth has been leveled – pounded and crushed –
And your Lord comes with angels, rank upon rank,
And brings that day, Hell – that day, man will remember, but what use is remembering?
He will say, “Oh, would that I had created more good in my life.”
You struggle not to think of such large things
not that you are unworthy of such thoughts but
small things are better
You concentrate on dawn sounds
the drum of a woodpecker
the insistent cheep of small birds
the liquid song of a canyon wren
falling by descending notes
The rising sun warms your body
as you sit criss-cross,
hands cupped in your lap
You look down
dawn light has pooled in your palms
like golden water
This moment
sees you
you see
a million million stones
You reach for one at your feet
a small stone
a random stone
cradled in your hand
it is surprisingly heavy
like all the others
it is perfect
You will keep it
