The other day I was thinking about some of the fun adventures I had in my younger days and the partners with whom I shared them.

An exceptional one was a three-day camping trip in the Adirondacks when I was 40 years old. A born and bred city girl, I had never been camping in my life, and this trip included portaging among three lakes and camping out under the stars. It was in June, and the mayflies were out in abundance.

There were six of us — three couples — the guys all Adirondack guides, expert in managing the challenges of such a camping trip. It was their tradition to each bring a date to their annual excursion, and it was their ritual to have one night when the guys wore ties and the females wore skirts, and we drank wine while the guys cooked the fish they caught.

While canoeing across the last lake, a storm began to brew, and by the time we made it to shore and a primitive lean-to, we were baragged with hailstones. We all hunkered down, built a fire, drank some more wine, sang some songs, and made the best of our last night. Except for a mayfly bite or too, the adventure was a rousing success.

As I enjoyed the memory, I remembered the name of the guy with whom I camped, and I decided to google him. I turns out he passed away in February.

I decided to check out some of my other romantic (and also dance) partners from over those early years, and all but one have passed away.

In memory of Jerry Passer, who introduced me to the magic of the Adirondacks, I share this poem I wrote back then.

Adirondack Rite

The mountain man lies beside me,
shadow and stone
in this moonlit grove.

Silently we listen for coyotes
howling in the wilderness,
the echo hoots of bears
searching for mates.

He promises to take me where
dark marsh grasses beckon
at the water’s sheltered edge,
where wind-washed scents
of wood smoke and rain breathe
ancient magic into the air,
where a pair of knife-winged hawks
inscribe the clouds with holy forms
and then ignite the sky,

He is silver in the starlight,
in the firelight, a whisper
like the oar’s wake in water.
He turns to give me a name, rooting
my spirit to this sacred place
and buries my sleep under dreams
as potent as the wilderness wind.