It’s an unsettling feeling
on a steep mountain descent
when the razor-sharp scree shifts from under your feet
and you know you’re going down.
You know for sure it’s going to hurt.
You just don’t know how badly.
Your automatic reaction is to shoot your hands out
behind you to catch yourself.
I did that once years ago
and the point of a rock punctured the palm of my hand,
right through my glove.
Instead, perhaps, you could try to land on your bum.
Of course, you would risk a fractured tailbone,
and the rest of the descent
wouldn’t be much fun after that.
Alas, you rarely have time to think about it.
Once you start to fall,
things happen far too quickly
and your instincts take over.
You might twist and turn to try to salvage your balance,
but most likely you’ll shoot your hands out behind you.
Unthinking.
Which is exactly what I did.
It turned out better than expected.
My pack took the brunt of the brief slide.
Only some minor scrapes on my hands.
And I left behind a wee bit of flesh from my leg on a rock.
Even with the greatest care in where you step,
even with the use of poles or an ice axe,
you’re bound to slip from time to time.
Truly, I have left little bits of flesh behind
all over these Canadian Rockies.
The mountains have a taste for my blood.