Peaks of Otter

[Atehequa]

Almost halfway into August, another hot day
Not so much as a slight breeze blowing our way
Until early evening’s savage thunderstorm
Dark clouds, lightning, winds, rain and hail
Rumbling, flashing and a thunderous boom
Usually moving away to the east before nightfall

The scent of wet bark and leaf litter rot
Somewhat pleasantly cooler, but still rather damp
Another summer storm has swiftly passed us by
Our big plastic tarp kept table, and firewood dry
Strung up over all, lashed to three young trees
Wet ash muck is scooped out of the fire pit

Peaks of Otter Campground on a summer’s night
Charcoal starter soaked kindling bursts into flame
Seasoned oak would fuel our warm campfire glow
Those blissfully simple needs we have to fill
Cool ale in our mugs and steaks on the grill
At ease, camped in these ancient Appalachians

Good spirits hovering above our merriment
We have left faceless phantoms far behind
Temporary sense of freedom and peace of mind
From a nearby heath bald, a whip-poor-will’s song
The mountain woods were soon filled with sounds
So well we know the different wild night calls

Far away from the bay and our work week woes
And the churning spew, puddles of media puke
No text message chimes interrupting campfire rhymes
Happy faces, glassy eyes reflecting flickering flame
Very much reveling in our unraveled redemption
Weary spirits, refreshed, wrought into new life

Lace wing flies fluttering around our propane lantern
Gladly welcoming in beetles and a small moth or two
Katydids take up where the whip-poor-will left off
Annoyed by their shrill songs, an owl’s hooting scoff
The short loud trill issued by a visiting hungry toad
Attracted by the light just as the insects in our camp

Slurred recounts, spoken memories of our youth
Family and old friends catching up on the news
Cups raised honoring those absent or passed away
Softly spoken names, cups raised in reverent cheer
Another one absent from our campfire this year
Not dead yet, but to our sadness soon to be so

A few memories slowly fading of our younger days
Tipsy campground beauties welcoming staggering pursuit
The magic made on a fantastic full moonlit spring night
Higher than ridge tops, seduced by a courting flute
Those fondest of memories, deep settled, never to dilute
Clinging upon slippery rocks, somewhere upstream

There are some of us who still tent camp today
Disconnected from the machine in a wonderful way
All the while hoping no noisy RVers pull their rigs in
The unnatural sound of a television and too much light
Let them go far away to a KOA and molest the night
As we are content hearing only the wild wood songs