Write that I grew up in heat,
and then traveled to cold,
crossed the country,
about two times,
in hiking, we were bold,
stopped along the USA,
through treachery and trees,
through cliffs, through mud,
at least three coats,
just to feel the open breeze,

Tell them that I owned the trail,
kicked the gravel,
ruled the world,
from Devil’s Tower,
to Crater Lake,
the great outdoors,
only speaks to some fates,
that fate is mine,
and in time,
I’d like to share,
My love of,
boot wearing,
hair tying,
camel backing,
right foot, left foot,
one at a time,
kinda lifestyle,
with the world,

Tell them instead of watching TV,
or sitting on a phone,
I’d hum along to tunes I heard,
a little while ago,
I’d sing,
I’d hum,
I’d trek,
for fun,
from one,
to two,
to three,
to ten,
we’d walk for miles
sun, snow or rain,
Tell them that instead of living it easy,
I went where no tween dares to go,
no wifi,
no cell phone service,
not three, or two, nor even one bar,
no contact with the outside world,
just families, and strangers, and neighbors,
all swirled, and hurled, curled up tight,
in tents,
in cabins,
with blankets as doors,
screens as windows,
and, worst of all,
PUBLIC BATHROOMS
sinks that rarely work,
towel dispensers that rarely do,
showers that have as much grease as a McDonald’s fry cooker,
and pit toilets,

When you write my story, be honest,
I didn’t always enjoy it,
getting up early,
hiking until your legs cramp up,
going seven or so miles a day,
wandering back home,
realizing that, that mud you stepped in, wasn’t only mud,
sleeping on a deflating (or already deflated) air mattress,
and then do it all again the next day,
but you only enjoy it, when you love the moments in between,
like catching the sunrise over the mountains,
or that you and your siblings are too tired to fight,
and the inside jokes, that only your family know,
the s’mores roasting,
the funny times when your marshmallow falls into the campfire,
those beautiful moments that are just small enough to go undetected,
unless you’ve got the mind of a camper,
the hair of a bird’s nest
the breath of a bullfrog,
the look that says:
“Was she just mauled by a bear?”
we traveled from Texas to New York,
New York to Wyoming,
Wyoming to Montana,
Montana to Oregon,
and many other states,
just to hike,

Say that I’m a Texan,
a New Yorker,
an Oregonian,
a Chenevert,
I’m a camper,
a boot wearing,
hair tying,
camel backing,
right foot, left foot,
one at a time,
a stiff leg’d,
nest haired,
early morning,
mud covered,
butterfly chasing,
bear hunting,
photo taking,
animal tracker,
footloose,
tent sleeping,
spider hating,
one with nature,
tanning,
one in a million,
hiker,
I’m a hiker,
Not living in world gone modern,
but a world in need of hikers,
like me and my family,
and many people before us,
WE are hikers.