Above Pate Valley 
    We finished clearing the last
    Section of trail by noon,
    High on the ridge-side
    Two thousand feet above the creek
    Reached the pass, went on
    Beyond the white pine groves,
    Granite shoulders, to a small
    Green meadow watered by the snow,
    Edged with Aspen—sun
    Straight high and blazing
    But the air was cool.
    Ate a cold fried trout in the
    Trembling shadows. I spied
    A glitter, and found a flake
    Black volcanic glass—obsidian—
    By a flower. Hands and knees
    Pushing the Bear grass, thousands
    Of arrowhead leavings over a
    Hundred yards. Not one good
    Head, just razor flakes
    On a hill snowed all but summer,
    A land of fat summer deer,
    They came to camp. On their
    Own trails. I followed my own
    Trail here. Picked up the cold-drill,
    Pick, singlejack, and sack
    Of dynamite.
    Ten thousand years.

                          Gary Snyder