It’s been a decade since the rock slide
tore out the concrete canal along Gallagher Lake.
Bits of the wall have fallen, exposing rebar,
like the ruined bunkers along the Rhine River.
There is a Canadian flag atop the cliff that has intrigued me
and I decide I would like to see it up close.
Climbing the vertical wall is out of the question.
I decide to hike straight on up the slope
to the saddle between two peaks, a real slog,
what I would have called a grunt in my younger years.
How was the climb?
Helluva grunt.
From the saddle, it is talus slope all the way to the summit,
interrupted by fallen trees from a wildfire a couple of years ago,
and a number of grassy plateaus, where local ranch owners
bring horse-mounted tourists.
I climb at a snail’s pace as I approach the apex,
my legs wobbly and crying for rest.
The summit is a large, sparsely-vegetated table,
from which I can see up and down the Okanagan valley.
I do not see the flag, so begin exploring the western ridge.
There is evidence of the presence of mountain sheep
and soon I am rewarded by the sight and sound of three rams,
their pounding hooves vibrating through the ground
as they run along the slope to safer terrain.
I eventually find the flag, but need to descend
nearly half the distance climbed. I keep my distance
to avoid loosening stone that could fall down the cliff
onto an unsuspecting paddle-boarder.
A sprained or broken ankle would be a drag,
so I take my final descent slowly as the stone
on the talus slope shifts frequently.
I slip and am saddened when I bend a hiking pole,
but better than a fractured tibia.
At the lake, the wind has picked up;
the aroma of sage fills my senses,
a joyful conclusion to my muscle-wearying jaunt.
