I had never been to Roosevelt before, only read about it in a crinkly mothball book by the area’s namesake: Theodore Roosevelt. I remember the book because it was the finest: first edition, first printing, gold rimmed, bound in leather, etchings of the brawn, hilly bear country faded yellow from years of sun. I bought the book at an auction, read it, then sold it for profit. I don’t regret selling it—now that I have seen the real Roosevelt I don’t need the sun-stained, gold-painted pictures, the real thing is too green-grassed, blue-skied, brown-barked, white-clouded to compare to any one copy, even the finest.
I stumbled into Rosy after a backcountry backpacking trip, shoulder-sore, sunburned, feet blister weary, and an hour too late for lunch. We were invited back for dinner in exchange for food coupons and were advised to take a hike in the meantime. Jim, the smiling chef, pointed us to Lost Lake trail.
We hiked from the cluster of employee housing down a rough road and past a bridge to a patchwork of switchbacks scaling the hillside. The trees burgeoned ragged; rustic like Roosevelt, trees hanging slack from the bone of earth like an old man’s dentures creaking and clacking. I could smell earth and green things sprouting up from the mold. Streams of sun escaped into the shade of trees creating ringlets of light in the shadow-path. This part of the trail was aesthetic the way an antique store is aesthetic.
Someone had hacked a second trail straight up from each switchback, this one was rough and strewn in sticks, all a-jumble. My friend Robert went straight up as I wobbled along the longer trail, tiptoe careful about my blisters gained from the backpacking trip. I stopped and leaned against tree, breathing hard. He waited for me at each turn, grinning, waiting in patches of sunlight.
After topping the hill and turning a few bends we hit Lost Lake, lily pads buried in blue sparkle, the trail alongside sprinkled heavily in mosquitoes and horse droppings. It had only taken us about 20 minutes to walk the .8 mile and so we went on, very slowly, waiting for the time to go and our meal to be ready.
There were rolling meadows liberally spotted in sunflowers, a snow run-off scar trickling down to the lake from the upper hills which encased our peaceful meadow. Though it’s been years since I have read or heard it, it brought to mind the 23rd Psalm, something Bible bound soft, not hard like Jeffers’ crags, cliffs, stones and hawks.
You lead me beside still waters, you nourish my soul. The classic love poem culled from nature, with all its woolly religious metaphors.
On the way back it was all downhill, a stern breeze snuffing at my hair. I ran the switchbacks, Robert slid down straight, on the heels of his boots.
