Across the rolling peak ran
a wall of stacked rocks. We
wondered if homesteaders
built it to deter hostile Indians,
or the Indians to deter
hostile homesteaders. The wall
remains Pisgah’s mystery
for boys through time to ponder.
On the low plains we replayed
roles by Alan Ladd - Shane, or
the soldier who captured Captain
Jack once he’d gone bad. We
mimicked the noise bullets make
careening off rocks.
                                 Ceaseless
Oregon rain scoured rock-strewn
trenches through Douglas fir
and scrub oak benches on Pisgah’s
flanks. Hiding in these from ranks
of wild cattle, in clenches
between good guy and bad, we
would peer in worry over our
shoulders, wary of cow-chase.
When autumnal winds blew brisk
and leaves were off the poison
oak along the rivulets,
we played hunters stealing up
on ranks of cows posing as
bison. Ignorant of their
role they might frisk cow-stupid
into our hiding place. Their
least movement sent us squirrel-
quick and chattering up the
nearest tree.
                             Each fall, we would
break out in runny poison
oak hives. My face would swell to
the size of a gourd. Babe Ruth
stared at me from the mirror.
At night stumbling through the back
pasture, shirt neck open, chill
wind-swords sliced bare swollen skin,
cutting the fiery itch. A
misery-drunk, I lurched through
cow-pie and water ditch. Such
painful scenes were forgotten
come spring. We’d scour Pisgah
from top to bottom looking
for crystals along creek beds,
poking through fallen oak leaves,
slimy and rotten, for things
boys treasure. Warm rains soaked us,
then, the sun turned us to steam
as we turned over leaves and
waded barefoot in the streams.