by Chris Ketchum
Payette National Forest
Ten miles on oatmeal. Lost off-trail
between Storm Peak and anywhere
we could get a signal or a ride. Tipped
cairns in the marsh grass, dew seeping
into our boots. A rock he toppled down
the gully would’ve split my forehead
if I hadn’t ducked. I wanted to blame him
but it wouldn’t have mattered. I couldn’t
turn back time and be the one to pack
our food instead. No one could lift
my body, dry, from where I’d fallen
into the river and soaked our map
to a skein of pulp. When he offered
the last of his jerky, I was too hungry
to refuse. He figured we could follow
Loon Creek to its lake, where a local
once told him fishermen camped in June.
The faster we walked, the faster
we’d find out if he was wrong—
When he leaned his pack against a fir,
sweat stain on his shoulders and back
in the shape of a child’s shadow,
I didn’t want to stop.
Not even when I crested the ridge
and saw a trail encircling Loon Lake
like an eyehook. And when the path
forked, I thought about leaving
an arrow marked in the dust—
I remembered his breath on my cheek,
hands cinching the collar of my shirt.
The night he pinned me to the kitchen floor
I was old enough to believe I could win—
too young to understand I didn’t want to.
I waited for him. Let him lead for the final
well-worn leg of the trail as dusk settled
into the mountains. Crossing a bridge
over the Secesh River, he pointed
into the shallows: sunlight cast a gold net
over bull trout huddled in a bright eddy
as if their bodies warmed each other,
flicking their spotted tails to keep together
as the current tugged them downstream.
Chris Ketchum is from Moscow, Idaho. He received an MFA from Vanderbilt University, where he served as the Curb Creative Writing Fellow and as a poetry editor for Nashville Review. His poems have recently appeared in Copper Nickel, Colorado Review, Constellations, and elsewhere. He is the recipient of the 2021 Laux/Millar Poetry Prize.
Hawaii Pacific Review 