Remembering Bob Walker in the California hills

 

on a clear day in January I hike along
the ridge trail of Morgan Territory,
a windswept shoulder of land
east of Mount Diablo

after ten straight days of rain
the afternoon sun is sharp
as mescaline

cold winds crack through empty oaks,
a hawk circles over fields of gray grass
pressed flat by the winds and rain

far to the east the white peaks
of the Sierra Nevada glimmer faintly
like a row of shark's teeth

fifteen years ago we climbed
these hills together, you and
your ancient crazy dog and I,
in every season and weather

before you got into environmentalism,
and I went to teach English and study
zen in Asia, and to climb the Japanese Alps,
the Tibetan Plateau, the Himalayas,
the Pamirs and Karakorum

now you are gone, and neither
the highest mountains nor
deepest rivers of Asia

meant as much to me now
as these California hills, and walking
through them beside you

 

Photo of Bob Walker, about 1979