Hall Creek Canyon

When we returned from building the kay-dam
(of logs and drift pins, to make again
a place where salmon might yet spawn)
we divvied up: each hauled a pack frame
loaded with tools and sundries, twice down
the canyon to its end, then up the old fire trails
a mile and a half, ducking vine maples
all the way, to his parked truck. A third trip
for three of us would end the business,
but night came on, as it generally does;
we might have come back another day, but
as the moon was full, down we went.
I folded and refolded our old tent,
and strapped it on, while the others sat
taking down the old sheepherder stove,
dumping ashes, talking. I would walk ahead,
I said, and slumped off down the scoured
sandstone ledge of the dry wash, admiring,
even in near exhaustion, the old moon
drifting among the snags. I came upon
the canyon with its pools and riffles,
and, regarding the first fire trail
as too steep, trudged on to the second,
wading a beaver pond. Logs at the downstream end,
old growth, were loosely piled like jackstraws,
and I footed along them easily as I had done
in hundreds of deep draws. A big cedar sighed,
turned so ever slightly in its sleep, and with
an almost inaudible click, closed over my shoe.
There was with me no axe, no lever of any kind.
I stood knee deep in black water, too far
from the landing to be heard, neatly caught.
What if my co-workers took that other trail?
I looked back as I unshipped the heavy pack,
seeing no movement but the falling moon,
knowing that a man alone in such a place
has, while he is there, no name at all.