No Leisurely Stroll

The man soldiers beneath an overstuffed backpack
towering above his head. Oblivious to the sultry
mid-morning sun, unaffected by sweat dribbling
down cheeks grayed by a closely-cropped beard,
 
lost in sounds emanating from white earbuds, 
he is not a familiar face encountered on my jogs; 
not a walker, fellow runner, poop-picker-upper. 
I pause mid-stride to raise a questioning eyebrow. 
 
When I hear wilderness training, I remember
a 44-pound forest-green backpack that included 
a Dutch Oven so the girls could bake their first
pineapple upside-down cake over a campfire;
 
rain tarps to stretch between trees at night–
knowing on clear nights, we would inch our bags 
from beneath the tarps to sleep under the stars.
And the moon. Especially the moon.
 
I remember ascents up rocky trails, 
finally reaching that place above the tree-line 
where the air was crisp and clouds floated below us;
where the earth seemed silent, peaceful, divine. 
 
Such a long time ago. 
 
Today, there is no pack on my shoulders 
and yet sweat rolls in rivers down cheeks 
the color of Ida’s red as I ponder my mortality, 
my husband’s, mother’s, and the choices 
 
that braid our lives together. 
The hiker asks for what am I training,
and to his surprise and mine
I reply, life.