Journey with John Stokes

Monday, November 4, 2024

Escape Route

Escape route

I tried to rouse you

Your escape route

was taking off

You said, let me sleep in

I’m in no shape for

Escaping.

I’ve seen many changes over the years to the Osceola National Forest Rifle Range Road, so named for the Lewis Whittaker gun range the Game Commission maintains. It once was a narrow sandy road with a thick canopy of trees. We would meet at the Moose Lodge parking lot on Watertown Lake every afternoon to make the usual six mile run out to Still Road, or to the second cattle gap and back. Sometimes we would go longer, depending on the season. In those days, free range cows were kept in the forest by the cattle gaps. The piney wood cows were not intimidated and often they refused to yield the road, as we skirted around in the tick waiting palmettos.

This was the road I once ran past the parked pest control truck, not realizing the weight lifter Steve had just committed suicide inside it. It was the starting point of many long mountain bike rides with my late friend Roger. It was the place Judy, Nancy and I rode in her old pickup in her ardent environmentalism up to Impassable Bay in search of red-cockaded woodpecker nests. It was the sand where we could tell by the shoe prints, who had come before us; Joe with the one Nike shoe sliding with the miniature collie prints beside him, the Adidas of Buddy, the Saucony of Russell, the Gatorskins of Rick and Ben. The road where I found the arrow point, running the last mile whooping as Jumper with Osceola. The road I now drive slowly in search of Monarchs and Bald Eagles, maybe a buck or even a Canebrake.

I miss the slow sand ruts, not so much picking gallberry switches, to run and keep off our backs the yellow and deer fly gauntlet of summer. I miss the shaded canopy, the wide packed limestone road now a white cloud covering everything with each passing pickup. Most of all I miss the meeting of so many friends, the many miles spent riding, running, walking and biking this ever developing road into the forest of never forgotten.

Blindside

I could not see the tree for the no see Um’s

But it seems it was all in my vision

For I was told, it’s as clear as any autumn

day, why do you see bugs, when there are none?

Awake beyond

The lady said, how cool, I’ve never seen a setting moon. Another remarked, oh my, I’ve never seen the seven crowned crab spider. And so it went, things never seen right in front of us upon the trail or at eye level in the early morning sky.

And so we slumber through life in a hazy state, seeing only the light between the narrow slits.

I suppose we shall awake in eternity, and exclaim. It’s just a shame the prelude given here is passed over.

Monarch of fall

The joy of fall

The female Monarch in the Osceola

Nana

Papa made a fire today NaNa

Made it in your memory

Used your orange barrow small

To gather up the pine straw

There was no dancing round the kettle

And as the ashes began to

Settle

Pappa just let them fall at will

Pulled closer and tried to shake this Autumn chill.

Wings for wolves

Interesting how when I only post a poem as this there are no responses. Why is that? My thought is the words aren’t read, only the photographs quickly looked at.