Chuck's Original Backcountry Poetry
WanderLust
Curious to know what's over that rise
or around that bend?
What's a mile beyond here,
or a minute beyond now?
Courageous enough to scale that intervening rise
and round that obscuring bend?
To venture that further mile
and live that eternal minute?
What education may the side canyon confer?
What treasures may the endless trail unearth
or the infinite night sky reveal?
What headwaters of new-thought await?
Wilderness is home to the soul,
and its sights and sounds and scents
vital to the soul's nourishment,
beckoning one's spirit.
Abandon inertia and reap Nature's bounty:
moments to savor,
memories to share; both
mementos to save.
Travel both diverging paths
within yonder yellow wood.
Be one traveler who avoids
the sorrow of the road not taken.
Curiosity kills neither cat nor man,
but bequeaths adventure and mission and exultation
to otherwise humdrum existence.
Acquiescence kills.
Yet few Dare.
Even fewer Do.
But none who Do
ever regret.
--copyright 1997 by Charles Morlock--
Backpacking
Backpacking is Mother Nature's laxative,
purging civilization's discontentments and
jettisoning society's cloying accouterments,
roughage for cleansing our psyche.
Backpacking simplifies existence,
relaxing Life's pace,
opening eyes to mind and soul
and conferring intimacy to all that is observed.
A mountain climbed becomes a mountain earned
just as a burden conquered is a burden mastered.
Backpacking requires Time,
and taking Time elongates Life,
turns Life elastic and
stretches Life to meet the horizon,
or perhaps not meet it.
It matters not,
for that which is stretched
e x p a n d s
amplifies
proliferates
and understanding surges in to possess
the newfound space.
So backpack,
and grow as you go.
--copyright 1998 by Charles Morlock--
Atop Uncompahgre Peak, Colorado
(14,309 feet above sea level)
Not the top of the entire world
but certainly tops in mine.
On the ground yet scraping the clouds,
exaltation and vistas immeasurable,
simultaneously pebble-small and redwood-tall.
Where does one go from the pinnacle?
Other than root and stagnate,
there is nowhere but down.
The peak, as all of life's highs,
ephemeral, fleeting, impermanent,
only to be relished, remembered, revered,
as life inevitably fast-forwards.
For descend we must to the valleys
to explore, experience, survive,
ever yearning for new endorphin highs
and praying life conspires us to soon rescale the heights.
--copyright 1997 by Charles Morlock--
There
Seek diligently to find your There,
ever sentient of There places
which furnish personal pleasure and
meaning and comfort and sanctuary,
where irrelevant time
passes more slowly than childhood summers.
There is where you belong,
your wellspring of self-sustenance,
your headwaters of joy and peace and
infusor of oneness.
There wallow and exalt,
blossoming in intimate verdance.
Do not defend or elucidate your There,
for only self may define personal geography.
Words prove insufficient tools
to construct explanation,
as inept as describing spiral staircases
without the use of hands.
Once There is found,
flee There often and linger.
Roost, extend roots long and strong and deep
and suck There's nourishment.
Plant forever body and soul
so none may pluck you from There.
For There is yours alone,
even when willingly shared.
None can remove you from There or There from you.
Go There.
Be There.
Become There.
--copyright 1997 by Charles Morlock--
Trekking
Vibramed toes crush dirt
and scale boulders,
chewing miles as they transport
eyes and soul to paradise.
Transport?
Or trespass?
If a tree falls with none near,
is there sound?
Does a seeker of solitude
destroy solitude in the seeking?
Does the quest for peace
destroy that peace?
Does beauty pursued
become beauty corrupted?
Is Nature's perfection blemished
by observation?
Do solitude and peace and beauty and perfection
exist only when experienced,
nonexistent but for man's appreciation?
Does infinity end when I stop counting?
--copyright 1997 by Charles Morlock--
Haiku
Mankind longs to fly.
Simply scale the mountains tall
and your soul shall soar.
--copyright 1997 by Charles Morlock--
Premature Eulogy for Yellowstone National Park
This photo, taken along the south shore of Shoshone Lake in Yellowstone National Park, is representative of the "look" found all through the park in areas hardest hit by the fires of 1988. The poem below the photo was inspired by such sights.
Mute, charred stilettos ineffectually stab clouds,
silent sentinels weeping above fallen comrades,
eloquent, stark testament to lush glory
which for generations had been.
Murdered by the conflagrations of 1988,
experts promptly delivered Yellowstone's eulogy:
Six of every ten acres destroyed.
Soil base scorched beyond revival.
Wildlife annihilated or homeless.
Nothing would live there again.
A pity. Man destroyed Nature
through carelessness and
shortsighted mismanagement.
Yet the canyons' grand waters still plummeted the falls,
lakes shimmered with majestic sunsets,
geysers spewed towering columns of vapor and water
as fumaroles fumed and mud pots oozed.
And Man still visited that which he had murdered.
But the scorched, inhospitable volcanic soil,
endeared only by the unfinicky lodgepole pine,
dutifully harbored generations of pinecone seeds
awaiting only heat to explode into life.
The forest floor, revelling in long unfelt sunlight,
burst joyously into verdant profusion,
with seedlings and wildflowers and grasses,
the ultimate recycling of new life from blackened earth.
Man's infinitesimal stature and foresight
ignorantly declared death upon new life,
again overestimating self and
shortchanging nature's healing power over
Man's destructiveness, as
mute, charred stilettos ineffectually stab clouds,
silent sentinels weeping above fallen comrades,
eloquent, stark testament to lush glory
which for generations had been,
and which in generations
shall be
again.
--copyright 1997 by Charles Morlock--
Give God All The Glory
Mountain peaks engineered with precision,
Majestic creation only God could envision,
Oceans of breadth and depth so profound,
Only He could excavate the ground.
Clear mountain stream and high waterfall,
God's own perfect Eden do recall.
Skyscraper tree and dainty wildflower
Indelibly proclaim God's inimitable power.
Give God all the glory,
Give God all the praise,
As He daily illumines
Our lives with His ways.
Invisible atoms and infinite skies,
Man discovers, but God designs.
Wonders which man could never erect,
Declare God the master architect.
He runs in the rivers, surges in the sea,
Melds with the mountains, yet inhabits you and me.
We are nothing without His hand,
As man's earthly life-course navigates His plan.
Give God all the glory,
Give God all the praise,
As He daily illumines
Our lives with His ways.
--copyright 1997 by Charles Morlock--
Wilderness
Wilderness invades your bloodstream,
roiling through your vessels
and rampantly invading all body parts
with sensuous primordial urges.
Osmose its grandeur
into every fiber of your being.
Fabricate kaleidoscopes of mental confection
whose endless iterations renew and revitalize
every civilization-weary cell,
patching holes in your soul and psyche.
Harken to Nature's susurrus sounds
with all your senses,
feel its stirring vibrations
within and without,
observe the birth of sounds,
taste and smell the crisp, unsullied air,
hear the deafening silence.
Bite off muti-acre portions and
swallow its miles voraciously,
digesting its beauty
and garnering strength
from its rejuvenating nutrients.
Obey
as wilderness impels you
to enter its escape.
Surrender your soul to
redevelopment,
renewal,
rebirth.
And finally, fully,
become alive.
--copyright 1998 by Charles Morlock--
Life's Rocks, Roots, and Ruts
Rocks, roots, and ruts,
storm-downed trees,
mud-slopped holes,
all temporary speed-bumps
to the mountain biker.
Rocks, roots, and ruts,
landslide-covered trails,
storm-swollen streams,
two-day thunderstorms,
all minor hindrances to the backpacker.
Insignificant trifles compared to
Life's rocks, roots, and ruts --
a relationship's end,
the loss of a friend,
a child's passing,
a despot's gassing,
a job's demise or
an unwanted surprise --
life-altering stumbling blocks for Life's travelers
to detour around, succumb to, or overcome.
Sidestep those rocks,
hurdle the roots,
refuse entrapment in the ruts.
Transform Life's roadblocks
into stepping stones to success,
ever living Life as you wish,
not as Life directs.
--copyright 1998 by Charles Morlock--
Conformity
This photo was taken from the seaplane dock on Isle Royale National Park as we watched the mother merganser teach her brood how to dive for food.
Very proudly, Momma merganser duckpaddled,
her wake peopled by seventeen newborn
obediently trailing like strung popcorn.
Then Momma dove, completely submerged, and resurfaced
fifteen feet downstream in a perfectly straight line.
The tykes emulated, reappearing five feet downstream
and splayed to the compass points,
from whence each scurried
to recreate the popcorn string.
Amused, I chuckled as this comic pedagogy
replayed a dozen times before me --
of dive, resurface, scurry, regroup --
until I saw myself in the lesson,
ever toeing the line,
subserviently following orders,
religiously adhering to rules,
striving for adulation for conforming,
getting all my ducks in a row.
Required conformity remains
a recurring, necessary lesson in youth,
taught, indoctrinated, daily.
Useful to family and society
for order, safety, convenience, peace of mind,
but at monstrous cost: unnatural; anti-individualistic;
stifling creativity and curiosity;
obliterating divergent thinking;
calamitous to invention.
Yearn for individuality.
Evade the harness. Shuck the uniform.
Avoid the lock-stepped. Avert the unvarying.
Shun the identical. Eschew the expected.
Abstain from standardization.
Invent. Innovate. Create. Produce.
Thirst. Investigate. Inquire. Pry.
Diverge. Contrive. Concoct. Swerve.
For conformity must be judiciously practiced in moderation.
Don't let dreams simmer, make them boil.
Live instead of follow,
for you can only lose yourself
when you give yourself away.
--copyright 1998 by Charles Morlock--
Squaretop Mountain
Wind River Range, Wyoming
This photo of Squaretop Mountain was taken from the northern shoreline of Upper Green River Lake.
It's there, imprisoned by the fog,
but I know it's there.
For four days I've admired it as it soared free.
I've studied it, photographed it,
hiked beside it and slept beneath it.
Now the enshrouding haze
envelops it, obscures it,
removing it from visual perception.
Still I sense it, feel it.
I know it is there
and soon will soar freely again.
Like my future, my destiny, my fate
similarly ensnared in an impenetrable fog,
revealed bit by bit, moment by moment.
Often imagined, prayed for, believed in,
but as uncertain as one's next breath,
unknown until it occurs,
imprisoned by the future
until released by the present.
Peer though I might, wish though I may
I can neither discern it nor predict it,
any more than I can now see Squaretop,
but can only await its revelation
as each day's revealing sunlight washes away the fog.
--copyright 1998 by Charles Morlock--
Lake Powell Reveries 2003 Early morning thoughts after five nights of sleeping under the stars
Atop the hillside, red sand my bed,
blazing stars enshroud my head,
houseboat below on lapping sand,
Gregory Butte commanding the land.
Eyes weary, I fight sleep off
for awesome firmament engenders thought
of places distant, of adventures near,
of family and friends, of love, of fear,
of earth's great circle spinning here
amongst this starry cosmic sphere,
until thoughts cease and sleep takes hold
in wafting breeze and pleasant cold,
and dreams supplant what eyes today gazed
as kayak and houseboat toppled waves,
of Glen Canyon's glory, long concealed,
by multi-year drought, now newly revealed,
its soaring, timeless, sheer-wall cliffs,
canvas for ageless petroglyphs,
its sandstone flats where dinosaurs trod,
its slot canyons choked with boulder clog,
till sunlight rises and full moon sinks
below azure waters etched with pink
and dazzling sunshine casts its sheen
painting red rock aglow and white rock agleam,
bathing Navaho Mountain in morn's new gold,
reminding of tales the ancients told,
flaunting coyote tracks ringing my bed,
testament that wildness is not dead.
My rousing mind celebrates all it sees,
till swarming gnats end my reveries,
and back to the houseboat I retreat
to forever relish Lake Powell memories.
Copyright 2003 by Charles Morlock
Groovin' Down the San Juan River
To answer the oft asked query after returning from a river trip, this is how! It is called "the groover" because in early river-running days, an ammunition box (like the white box in front of the toilet) was used to accumulate and carry feces out of the canyon, and sitting on the ammunition box left grooves on one's butt-cheeks. Mike and I volunteered to set up and pack up the groover each day as one of our camp chores, something much appreciated by all the others who therefore didn't have to do it, and in recognition of our experiences, I composed the following poem:
The job that no one else wanted to do,
Fell to the stalwart groover crew,
So the first thing set up when we beach the boat
Is the groover box, carried by Chuck and Goat.
A scenic view and some level land
Are the basic needs of the groover can.
We remove the lock and install the seat
And give them scenery that can't be beat.
Place the paddle where all can see
And if it's there, you've got the key!
They're as happy as punch that the job is done
And all traipse the groover trail, one by one.
Relief is only a short stroll away
So mosey on over without delay,
Lighten your load and put on a smile,
Please close the lid, then walk back with style.
But leave only solids, no liquids, you see,
Use the brown river when you pee,
And don't worry about any pollution,
'cause it's all taken care of by San Juan dilution.
Everyone contributes their weighty concerns
Before launch time arrives as our canyon world turns,
And just before shove off we pack away
the groover's accumulation of the remains of yesterday.
Copyright 2003 by Charles Morlock
Homage to Alaska
A rugged, demanding land, vaster even than man's ego,
the epitome of wilderness,
as teeming with wildlife as it is bereft of trails,
possessed of a beauty as staggering as its immensity:
mountainsides a vertical patchwork quilt celebrating autumn,
vibrant sunsets bloodying clouds
as evening shadows morph into darkness,
innumerable vistas screaming for attention
as Nature's palette displayed broad stroke
overwhelms mere mortal senses,
a mind quake attempting to seize the unattainable,
yet compelling sight and smell, taste and touch
to gulp and digest for spirit nourishment.
An enigmatic land of immutable contrasts:
exhilarating and exasperating,
enticing and foreboding,
invigorating and enervating,
terrain which can thrill and kill,
cloudless azure skies and smoke choked heights,
shallow silty beaded rivers and hundred fathom translucent fjords,
sea level and continental apex,
glaciers and wetlands,
rock solid mountains and trembling earth,
rainbow tinted daysky and Aurora highlighted nightsky,
towering forests and diminutive lichen,
unyielding boulder fields and mattress soft tundra,
ever sun and never sun.
For eons peopled by hearty souls
toughened by climate and topography
like iron made into steel,
the Tlinket and Athabascan,
Haida and Tsimshian,
the Stampeders and mountain men,
miners and trappers,
all blessed by this land, not broken,
relishing, not relinquishing,
thriving, not succumbing,
exemplars embodying values of fierce independence,
self-sustenance, and personal accountability
as each struggled for life and livlihood.
Just as surely as a people form a land,
the land forms its people,
and just as surely
this land and people transform visitors,
captivating, edifying, mystifying,
and like an alluring, magnetic mistress,
Alaska attracts and compels all to revisit
and once again become intimate with this bewitching lover.
Copyright 2004 by Charles Morlock
Spirits of Canyon de Chelly
Ancient Ones,
Anasazi and Hopi and Navajo,
beckon us --
come visit our once-stately homes
and view our fading rock art --
envision our way of life
and respect our life ways.
Many come, look, and leave,
but the spirits urge lingering,
whispering to all --
remain a while.
Hear the echoes of our voices,
feel our canyon winds,
smell our sweet desert fragrances,
taste our falling raindrops
and watch our arid sand
briefly harden, then billow again.
Feel the shade of our cottonwood
and marvel at our sudden waterfalls,
discern the wild presence
of our unseen mountain lions and coyotes,
then rest beneath our shade houses
and find respite from heat and troubles.
Camp within the embrace of our spirits --
so long departed
yet ever-present.
Osmose our culture emanating from cliff dwellings
petroglyphs, and pictographs,
absorb through every pore the presence
of Anasazi and Hopi and Navajo.
Revere our land as we did
and become briefly, joyfully,
one with our canyon,
our canyon that vibrantly
resonates our culture,
reveals our spirit
regales our history --
of good life lived
and good living yet to come.
Join in it.
Come toss your dream coins
into our de Chelly wishing well.
Contemplate as your ripples
grow ever outward,
broadening and deepening,
as knowledge of our ways
broadens and deepens
your understanding.
Then feel your spirit dreams soar
on our canyon breezes.
Feel our moods change
as it frenzies from breeze into fury,
lashing rain torrents from towering cliffs,
and feel us suddenly retreat
as blue skies and billowy white clouds
just as quickly replace
ashen skies and lightning.
Revel as our ancient spirits
exit our ruins
and invest you with
new-thought.
Traverse our canyon paths,
descend our Twin and Crack-in-the-Rock Trails,
labor up Yei Bi Shei and White Sands Trails,
trod where we trod
and sense us smiling
as you honor our ways.
Cherish the pony whinnies and coyote howls,
trace the circling flight of majestic golden eagles,
delight in our profuse bouquet
of cacti and wildflowers.
Tuck into your heart our stories and songs
and infinite wisdom --
of Mother Earth
of Father Sky
and Great Spirit --
hurdling you backward in time
but forward in personal growth.
And come back. Return often.
Bring others.
And begin your life anew,
now copiously enriched.
copyright 2008 by Chuck Morlock
