Bald Mountain stunted trees envelope me, miniaturized and tight. Blue skies swept with a filmy white. Fluffy cloud islands spot the sky. Manzanita country spotted with rocks, craggy carrocks stained yellow, pitted pock marked grey.
      Sit in a copse of cypress. Tired feather green leaves patient in the dry air. Sun beats down heat. Breezes waft and blow up the canyons, cool the skin. Carpet of boney, brittle branches crackle at our feet and prick my skin. Just a moment spent, a tourist on this sacred mountain.
      David Robertson our guide is the mountain's voice for my deaf ears. Jack tells of Lew Welch and his troubled loneliness, his unrequited zeal for this land. Never recovered, his body still wanders these paths in our minds. Trails ahead and the trails he leaves behind from which I feel I can identify with his frustrated poetic wonder. Yet this dry air kills my tears. Maybe I'm looking in the wrong place. Then a turkey vulture glides overhead, a black "V" skimming canyon winds to the southwest.
      I can't shed a tear. I'd never surrender my moisture to this dry air.