My race that day was slow and sluggish.
The condition cold an extremely mugish.
The air was damp as I rounded the rock.
Heading down my only thought.
My placement would not qualify for next year’s race.
With life itself there’s no failures, no disgrace.
Just opportunities to be endured.
Volunteering more might be the word.
The call came early the next morning.
Not good new just an ominous warning
A man never returns from the top of the mountain
Very concerning…for last night it poured like a fountain.
We gathered at the fire house a group of volunteers.
Runners, hunters, fireman, skiers & mountaineers.
A ragged tag group indeed.
What was critical was time and speed.
We gathered up the forces for a general plan.
The question was, what part of the mountain had he ran?
We spread out in groups and began our search.
He was last seen at the top above the alder and birch.
We took what we believe to be the obvious route.
In the gulley, the face & the shoot.
All the traps, the snow bridges checked out.
Under the brush, cracks & crag from the top to the snout.
As the days passed and much ground had been covered.
Knowledge of the man and his past was the only thing discovered.
Opinion flew like a flock of Gulls
Could be heard in the restaurants, offices, halls.
Nobody knew for sure because no trace was found.
We did our very best to cover all ground.
While poking the underbrush looking for signs I found an 8-track tape.
Who had lost this in the brush?
Was it abandon or did it escape?
John Muir once quoted to his wife’s worries of his possible death while on his solo journeys
*What better place to die
I have never played that tape, who knows, maybe Michael is content where he lies.