Above Pate Valley

Gary Snyder   

We finished clearing the last   

Section of trail by noon, 

High on the ridge-side 

Two thousand feet above the creek   

Reached the pass, went on 

Beyond the white pine groves,   

Granite shoulders, to a small 

Green meadow watered by the snow,   

Edged with Aspen—sun 

Straight high and blazing 

But the air was cool. 

Ate a cold fried trout in the   

Trembling shadows. I spied 

A glitter, and found a flake 

Black volcanic glass—obsidian— 

By a flower. Hands and knees   

Pushing the Bear grass, thousands   

Of arrowhead leavings over a   

Hundred yards. Not one good   

Head, just razor flakes 

On a hill snowed all but summer,   

A land of fat summer deer, 

They came to camp. On their   

Own trails. I followed my own   

Trail here. Picked up the cold-drill,   

Pick, singlejack, and sack 

Of dynamite. 

Ten thousand years.