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.