WE DROVE EAST ON HIGHWAY 10 TO RITZVILLE

then south on 395
to the Tri-Cities,
crossed the Columbia river
just south of Pasco.
 
I knew the route we’d take.
Dad rehearsed it, map
on the table, weeks before;
made a big plywood box
 
for the top of our 49 Chevy
to hold the camping gear,
painted it grey.
I recall the 3 a.m. start,
 
sitting forward a bit
looking over the edge of the window,
rolled down in the desert heat,
the sun washing away the grey dawn,
 
the white guardrail posts
snapping out a mesmeric tattoo,
a fragment of a Meadowlark’s song,
the odor of warm sagebrush,
 
the basalt cliffs along the Columbia,
the open pine woods south of Bend
and Klamath Falls and Weed
and Redding—then west on 44
 
to Lassen Volcanic National Park.
When I would tell people about it later
I said the full name:
Lassen Volcanic National Park.
 
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Lassen Volcanic National Park.
We camped on Kings Creek,
the four of us huddled
in the oiled canvas tent,
 
the umbrella-type with center-pole
Dad comically erected
with a lot of sanitized expletives;
about froze to death
 
in too-thin sleeping bags
on the too-hard ground,
emerged to a near-frost,
ate hot bacon and pancakes
 
against the morning cold,
waited for the sun
to warm the pines and the
grasses along the creek.
 
0000000* * * *

Lassen Volcanic National Park.
I think we were in danger there,
a dormant kind of danger
no one would admit:
 
A trail led from Kings Creek
to Bumpass Hell.
We walked there one sunny morning,
stood high above looking down,
 
down into calderas
of bubbling sulfurous ooze.
And I learned from a little plaque
that the same compressed heat
 
that caused this hellish scene
had caused Lassen to explode
sometime in 1915
sending molten rocks
 
bouncing down from the peak,
a droll image in a way, still,
I wondered how we could
stand there with such calm.
 
But Mom and Dad were calm.
My sister was calm,
The ranger was calm.
So I was calm.
 
0000 00* * * *

Lassen Volcanic National Park
I have a memory of the old lodge
and the big pines as we left the park.
I stood on the hump behind the front seat,
 
everything grey in the pre-dawn.
Mom had let me pick out a souvenir:
a little pennant with red ties,
attached to a blue felt edge,
 
a painted picture of the peak
squeezed onto a triangle of blue felt.
It’s still in a box
somewhere in the basement.
 
0000000* * * *

Lassen Volcanic National Park
Today I found the park’s website
downloaded a map,
moved the cursor
 
to the dot at Kings Creek,
clicked till it filled the screen.
I had almost expected to see
an eight-year-old
 
playing near the water.

THE OCCASIONAL FIRE

POEMS
Life Scroll
Spirit Wings
Death in the Family
Flight Chief
Legacy
Honeymoon Photo, October, 1939
49 Chevy
The Seed of Me
We Drove East on Highway 10 to Ritzville
Waiting for the Resurrection
Land of Rest
On Allison's Leaving
Telecom's Bequest
Starbucks, Tuesday, 3:36 p.m.
Action Still
Vital Meaning
Fools

HYMNS
God will not let us go
The rising sun blazed out of night
Light! Light! A shattering light
Worship the Lord
As a doe

ABOUT MARK RHOADS