Yesterday I remembered my younger days working in Texas,
like the time I was winter camping in Big Bend
when a Norther came wrenching through one night.
Lines strained and tents bellowed. Suddenly grommets tore
and tents flew away on the wind. I doubled up but couldn’t sleep.
Next morning a rude layer of ice and snow coated everything.
The day before hit a balmy 72 degrees. Gear scattered
everywhere on the ground, we set out recovering it or there’d
be no breakfast. No rest for the weary. I lost a few things.

Two weeks mapping mineral deposits, there and a nearby
county with the permission of some large ranches.
Owners hoped we were looking for oil or gas.
I said “No, unfortunately. Volcanic activity a few million
years ago cooked everything.”

We hiked and camped and enjoyed the wilderness
and its arresting beauty, moving through alternate layers
of heat and cold, and rugged unmarked trails at ease,
recording everything.

At one location an angry rancher charged up in a pickup
and threatened us with a shotgun. I had used my 4-wheel’s
horn to shoo some cows assembled near a cattle gate.
Little did I know the horn was their feeding signal.
We were soon surrounded by hundreds staring at us.
The man threw out bales of hay then lowered his gun
at the hindquarter of a large female. We all shrieked
when it went off, but the cow barely protested and slowly
ambled off with the rest in tow. “Rock salt,” he barked…
Do it again next time I’ll use it on you.”

In the waning light of a warm day after the storm
I took a photograph of my teammates on top of Emory Peak,
the highest point in Texas. That night we camped
at a refreshing hot spring. I used to think they were
the best of colleagues and friends anywhere.
Now I barely wonder who and where they are.

Time means you think there is always at least another day
followed by the next one in series.
Now, the period seems to begin and end everything.
Who knew?

Stephen Cipot
Garden City Park