Turned back at the mountain trailhead,
we climbed instead a nearby peak
and then instead broke left,

wrecked by the heat,
for an alpine lake, each set
of switchbacks a fresh slap,
the thinning treeline promising
almost there for miles
and then finally

the break
into a basin meadow
and a perfect still round
of glacial-hued water.

In it in a minute,
cold and clean, our reverie
broken only by two German women
who had hiked up with their purses,
sat down next to us, spoke
in hushed tones of Oregon
and The Grand Canyon, 

of other National Parks
thousands of miles away,
perhaps underestimating
the relative vastness
of the Western States.

A larval salamander
came to inspect my shadow
and then my toes,
external gills like a mane,
fearsome in his own way,
just not in scale,

and in the shadow of the Throne,
two peaks, some lesser mountain
the backcountry dwarfed us as well,

wilderness for days, full
of life but few if any people,

we wished we too could stay
a night, could stay for a while,
wondered at the change
that would take place

if after only hours
despite our packs
we felt immeasurably
smaller

and lighter.