Lake of the Clouds in the Porcupine Mountains

Suction from black mud sticks and pulls at the grooves in my sandals. Underfoot, a summer rain captured in hot puddles gives us a flailing dance.

Sunlight beneath shadows of the old growth forest beams on the dead pine needles like a flashlight.

Nothing but out breath is hard, is heard. Leaves fall softly and we tread lightly. We are strangers in our own land.

Climbing the Lake of the Clouds in places we never complained about.

Reaching rocks so high and big, every upward pull sends elevation screaming to our ears.

Who needs friends.