The Hike

I was young and stupid, and had no depth perception.

"I love ten mile hikes!" I said. Just like I love these desert rocks!

At the bottom of the Grand Canyon, I blazed a new trail and ate lunch by a waterfall. All was still good. But the nettles in my flesh were a portent of what was to come.

Five miles straight up, at 7,000 feet of elevation, makes even the most benign desert plant (one that I found beautiful on the way down) a totem of overwhelming hatred.

As I dragged myself up the Grand Canyon, I heard the French tourists whispering.
It was only in my car, driving away, that I realized why.
I had stripes of sweat-borne salt on my forehead in patterns resembling war paint.

If they only knew.