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Bivouac on Mount Adams
Cezanne Alexander

Restless. Moonlight. Impatient.
Impetuous,
we left our warmth and shelter.
By headlamp we found the trail, followed it to the snow line and lost it.

Backtrack. Flat spot. Moonset.
Tucked amid the
jumble we drew close, closer.
With hours until dawn we gnawed PowerBars and shivered beneath the stars.

Predawn. Coldest. Darkest.
Then, lupine blue
bloomed to monkey flower pink.
Marmots and pikas emerged from warm burrows and scolded our intrusion.

Aurora glow. Backlit,
the volcano threw
its apex shadow across
the valley, vineyards, mighty Columbia, and up the side of a hooded mountain.

With no coffee, we drank
water. Seeking
stimulation, we inhaled:
pine below, sulfur above, organic matter sparse at the marge of erosion.

Radiant sunrise thawed
us limb to soul.
We lingered in the moment,
held in a rocky nook, midway, but more memorable than the final summit.

—
Cezanne Alexander is a writer living between the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Olympic rainforest. She is the winner of the Musepaper Story Prize.

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Northern Canada by Mark Nemeth
The Amazing Falling Woman by Madeline Izzo

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