Cross Purposes

I could subsist on rice and beans for months, I often have, a little fried salt pork and a pone of cornbread. Just got back to the ridge and it's incredibly beautiful. There had been a small ice storm and nothing had melted, everything prismatic. The ice has encased the snow on every twig and branch, and it sparkles. Left work at four, stopped at Kroger and picked up what I thought I could carry: cream, whiskey, tobacco, a pork tenderloin, 4 pounds of baby purple potatoes, coffee, a couple of protein drinks, ramen noodles, a pound of dried navy beans, a piece of salt pork, a bag of onions; a few other 'personal' items, toothpaste, baby powder, and some ginseng I scored from my dealer. Maybe a thirty pound pack. Nothing to obsess about. You just stop more often, look around, consider where you are. I confuse the present and the past because that's the way it happens for me. One thing reminds me of another. I made it home, though it was a tough hike, having to anchor every step with a very specific down-beat. A bull-dog hike. It's not even half-a-mile, but it's all uphill, and it's cold, and the six inches of settled snow is crusted and requires constant attention. I'm not sure why I do this. Surely I could have an easier life, buy a suit, sit at a desk, but the easier answer is never enough. Start a hot fire with poplar and red maple, heat some soup, turn on the radio. First thing you know, after you put on an oak log, is that things are warmer than they were. And it's quiet. I do love when it's quiet.