Rachael Mead #3, The hike to Bridal Gap

The hike to Bridal Gap

We set out into a morning where everything smells of rain

and I can feel the weather gathering between my fingers.

It is a sweet walk across the pound and I am content as a bee

laden with pollen weaving drunk and heavy to the hive.

The earth pulls the heat from the soles of my boots

as we pass through country guarded by eucalypts,

native pine and mallee.  Kangaroos lean on elbows

to watch us pass.  Everything smells of sunwarm fur.

The path narrows, rocks tumble underfoot as we climb up

the blunt saw-edge of the Pound. Ti-tree closes in overhead.

And then we are out, the world falls away from our feet,

the air in the valley standing so straight and clean.

We drop our packs, deciding in the last of the light

to climb Dick Nob. I’m not kidding – it’s on the map.

We clamber our way up the rock wall folded neatly

into layers before us, each of holding one end of a smile.

Yucca leaves rattle and slither as we pass reminding us

there are some inhabitants here we do not wish to meet.

We scramble on all fours, bodies flexing into ancient positions, 

dimly remembered. Goats and crows watch from nearby walls.

We climb out of the shade to catch the light as it passes west.

At the summit there is ceremony.  Rocks added to the cairn,

faces lifted to the sun, the underwater chime of uncorked scotch.

Everything smells of camp smoke, saltbush and laughter.