elevation 14,256 feet
Two hundred years ago,
when only natives
knew of the proper path
(which still survives)
to where the difficult ground
quickens one’s breath;
from where, above the woods,
one can out-climb the clouds
or kick down heavy boulders
if one so chooses;
where the land begins to grow
more dangerous as it rises
(like God, or perhaps
like truth); and where in winter
an inhuman depth of snow
erases the world:
two centuries ago
it defied the settlers’ maps.
At first, in search of gold,
prospectors hired guides,
but the guides abandoned
the witless whites
when it grew too cold,
and none was ever found.
Once settled, some surmounted
the Collegiate Range
(by which it is surrounded)
simply for some strange
pleasure, but they were daunted
when, from every angle,
nothing was visible.
Though the air was thin
and water scarce
their minds had not grown dim
nor their eyes weak.
It was Quandary Peak.
Today it still escapes
every casual glance,
its perpetual snowcap
tripling the summer sun’s
brilliance, perpetual rains
blurring its edges.
All of its aspects conspire
to lower the eyes —
precarious rocky ledges,
downshining rays
of light that burn like fire
without the heat,
and native burial stones
that hinder the feet
each with one name engraved.
It is false summit heaped
upon false summit
and it must not be believed,
for in two hundred years more
its spell will not be ended,
nor this truth hid:
Quandary should be knelt before,
never ascended.
I know. I did.
