“Higher than a hawk.”

….I was on a ledge. On the side of a mountain.

Below me the U.P. went to the horizon. A big drop-off at my feet. The forest down there lay far away, solid and dark green. There was a mountain range in the distance.

A hawk with wide wings hung in the air below me. Pretty strange, looking down at a hawk from above. It was a Red-shouldered Hawk, not that identification mattered much just then.

But I looked. Had to aim the binoculars past my feet, past the ledge’s rim. The sun was shining on me, and on the hawk’s back, highlighting its red-brown wing patterns. Interesting.

But where was I? I lowered the binoculars. The hawk twisted its tail and banked away. I looked at my hands. They were gripping the binoculars, hard. Like fists. I was pissed.

I had walked out of the woods, but now I was on an escarpment. I checked the map and it was there. Hadn’t paid attention before; didn’t know what the wavy line meant.

I looked along the ledge in both directions, realizing it had to be part of the trail. There was a blue diamond on a rock near some trees. I could barely make it out.

I looked at my two fists again. Side-by-side on the binoculars, bunched and beat-up. The phrase hit: “two-fisted.” I knew what it meant. I figured, c’mon, guy, get your ass in gear. Move out.

I went to the blue diamond, then the next, following them back into the trees. Two-fisted hiking. No choice. And things weren’t bad. It had been good to see the hawk below the ledge. A rare perspective. Me, higher than a hawk.

And I liked the insight about two-fistedness, with the binoculars being a focal point for the way two fists get a grip. I walked.

An hour later, maybe two, maybe three, as it was getting dark, I found a gap in the trees. I went through it and there was the road. A logging truck came grinding along. The friendly driver let me hop on back. We drove out.

I was sitting against logs that smelled of sap. I was scratched, bug-bit and sweaty. I turned my hat around and let the wind blow in my face. I felt great. I was no Stanley in the Congo. Just a guy who went bird watching and got stupid about it.

But I’d been higher than a hawk out there. That was something. And I’d had the thought about two fists on binoculars. That was a first. I figured that having a two-fisted attitude was the way to get out. More than that, it was the way to be.

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