Lucky Words

This is kind of a lonely poem for a lonely day hiking. Not lonely, exactly, but very alone. I spent probably five hours and saw, maybe, three human beings. It was good. I like to be alone.Sometimes. I also like to be with those I love. When I am with other people, I think about them. I am a person in society. When I am alone, I think about God, or nature, or poetry and art, or all of those things. I think about myself in relation to all those things.### TEXT OF POEM"The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon" by Gwendolyn BrooksI think it must be lonely to be God.Nobody loves a master. No. DespiteThe bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and brightDetermined reverence of Sunday eyes.Picture Jehovah striding through the hallOf His importance, creatures running outFrom servant-corners to acclaim, to shoutAppreciation of His merit's glare.But who walks with Him?—dares to take His arm,To clap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear,Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer,Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool?Perhaps—who knows?—He tires of looking down.Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight.Perhaps sometimes He tires of being greatIn solitude. Without a hand to hold.

More adventures in Canyonlands National Park in southern Utah.I hike to be quiet and alone. This hike took me on the White Rim Trail, one of the destination trails for 4x4 affectionados. Which is about the opposite of me. I like my peace and quiet, which never includes dirtbikes or ATVs.Of course, every one I saw at least waved at me, and often were very friendly and chatty. I tell a story of one of those encounters in this episode.### TEXT OF POEMAlexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude"Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native air,In his own ground.Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire,Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter fire.Blest, who can unconcernedly findHours, days, and years slide soft away,In health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day,Sound sleep by night; study and ease,Together mixed; sweet recreation;And innocence, which most does please,With meditation.Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;Thus unlamented let me die;Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.

This recording was originally much longer than what I've got for you here. I took a fork in a trail which led me to an overlook that was so magnificent, so overwhelming, that I just stood there, mostly mute. It's vastness, it's quiet emptiness: it made me feel small and like a thing touching divinity.Later, on that same hike, I discovered tiny tiny flowers that I hadn't noticed before. They were just as shocking to me as the canyon. Big and small: this hike was really killing me aesthetically.It took a bunch of research to figure out that the flowers I looked at were [Gilia inconspicua], or "shy gilia."### TEXT OF POEM"Interlude III" by Karl ShapiroWriting, I crushed an insect with my nailAnd thought nothing at all. A bit of wingCaught my eye then, A gossamer so frailAnd exquisite, I saw in it a thingThat scorned the grossness of the thing I wroteIt hung upon my finger like a sting.A leg I noticed next, fine a mote,“And on this frail eyelash he walked,” I said,“And climbed and walked like any mountain-goat”And in the mood I sought the little head,But it was lost; then in my heart a fearCried out, “A life- why beautiful, why dead!”It was a mite that held itself most dear,So small I could have drowned it with a tear.[Gilia inconspicua]: http://www.swcoloradowildflowers.com/White%20Enlarged%20Photo%20Pages/gilia.htm

I spent a few days in Moab, camping and hiking and writing and recording. It was lovely.This episode was recorded as I was hiking in Canyonlands National Park on the Murphy loop. I did edit out some long stretches of just me walking (not excatly compelling audio, that), and a couple of times were I got distracted by something I saw. I did leave in a couple shorter ones (a lizard in one instance, a butterfly in another) just to maintain the feeling of the recording, which is not some manufactured-in-the-studio-with-a-catalog-of-outdoor-sounds. Nope, this is really me, walking along in a spectacular landscape.### TEXT OF POEM"My Cathedral" by Henry Wadsworth LongfellowLike two cathedral towers these stately pinesUplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;The arch beneath them is not built with stones,Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,And learn there may be worship with out words.

One of the beautiful days in April in Utah, talking about a beautiful sport in Boston. (OK, this year, there's very little beautiful about baseball in Boston, but last year was great and there's always next year.) Some American poetry today, because today feels like a good day to be an American.This is not an easy poem. It's weird. Don't worry too much about getting it "right." That's not the point. This is a poem to take an interpretation (or partial interpretation, in my case, and probably yours, too) and go with it. There's something powerful in a poem that so absolutely refuses to allow for definitive interpretation.### TEXT OF POEMAmy Lowell's "Fenway Park: Study in Orange and Silver"Through the spring-thickened branchesI see it floating,An ivory domeHeaded to gold by the dim sun.It hangs against a white-misted sky,And the swollen branchesOpen or cover it,As they blow in the wet wind.

On a trail up American Fork canyon, listening to the water rushing down the mountain as it melts from the snowpack. It's mesmerizing. I know it just sounds like a static hiss on the recording: maybe you can hear it as a natural sound and not just a background noise.There's something magical about this transition between seasons. There's something magical about seeing the world transform itself, to move from a monochromatic, cold environment to a verdant one: warm, green, vibrant.Today's poem is about the world, kind of. And it's about things that repeat (like the seasons repeat, every year). And it's about language. Every poem is about language at some level, it's more surface in this one than in others.You might find this a challenging poem. I do. I know that I am only getting only a fraction of the meaning out of this poem. But that's enough for today. I will let this grow the way that the things are growing around me. I'll know more tomorrow. You'll know more tomorrow, too.### TEXT OF POEM"You begin" by Margaret AtwoodYou begin this way:this is your hand,this is your eye,this is a fish, blue and flaton the paper, almostthe shape of an eyeThis is your mouth, this is an Oor a moon, whicheveryou like.This is yellow.Outside the windowis the rain, greenbecause it is summer, and beyond thatthe trees and then the world,which is round and has onlythe colors of these nine crayons.This is the world, which is fullerand more difficult to learn than I have said.You are right to smudge it that waywith the red and thenthe orange: the world burns.Once you have learned these wordsyou will learn that there are morewords than you can ever learn.The word hand floats above your handlike a small cloud over a lake.The word hand anchorsyour hand to this tableyour hand is a warm stoneI hold between two words.This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,which is round but not flat and has more colorsthan we can see.It begins, it has an end,this is what you willcome back to, this is your hand.

While one a short hike right near the border between Utah and Idaho, I tried to capture the songs of all the [Western Meadowlarks](https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/western-meadowlark) around me. If you listen closely, you can just hear them. It's one of my favorite birdsongs, and they're not shy about singing it.Today's poem is another of Shakespeare's sonnets. If you didn't hear my episodes on the sonnets, I highly recommend heading back and listening to episodes 201, 203, and 205. I give a brief summary here, but only very, very briefly.There are still a couple of important moves left for the sonnets, and next time we will be leaving the handsome young man and hooking up with the dark lady. Whoo: mysterious!### TEXT OF POEMSonnet 126, by William ShakespeareO thou, my lovely boy, who in thy powerDost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;Who hast by waning grown, and therein showestThy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest.If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skillMay time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,And her quietus is to render thee.( )( )

This was recorded on a super windy day in Moab. I didn't realize just how much it had affected the recording until I tried to listen to it at home. I tried to make it listenable in Audacity and GarageBand, and even still it sounds pretty lousy.Which is really too bad, because the poem is great and the locale was spectacular. There are few things more pleasant than sitting on warm slickrock when the day turns cool and breezy. There's such a lovely radiant heat from the stone.What I didn't actually get to in my analysis is a discussion of the word "circuit." What Dickinson means here is not a circuit in the electronic sense, but in a circular sense. That second line means that success comes from taking the long, perhaps meandering path. Don't just spit out the truth, but draw it out slowly, deliberately, intentionally.Part of what's fun about this poem is that it is so short. In contrast with her message, this poem just kind of dumps it out in just 41 words. There's not much circuit here, not much "gradually" -- and yet it dazzles.### TEXT OF POEM"Tell all the truth but tell it slant" by Emily DickinsonTell all the truth but tell it slant —Success in Circuit liesToo bright for our infirm DelightThe Truth's superb surpriseAs Lightning to the Children easedWith explanation kindThe Truth must dazzle graduallyOr every man be blind —

Today's poem, perfectly titled for a beautiful day in April, is a pretty tough one for me. Even now, listening to what I said when I recorded, I'm only half-convinced of my interpretation. I have noticed some new stuff, that I would include if I could. But the recording is not a historical event, captured in this one-take.I did do a little editing in this recording, though. A good chunk is me getting distracted by birds, and it's boring to listen to me watching. The birds were too quiet to hear well, and it just isn't that compelling to listen to birdwatching. It isn't compelling for me, and I'm the one who was doing it. So I edited that out.I also edited out three or four false starts on my interpretation. Between my readings of the poem, I gave some exegesis, and then some better, and then different from before. I left in only the last one, because it is the most detailed.My reading of it isn't informed by any research from Millay experts (which I am not), but only my own skills as a reader. Do you see something different, something that is supported by the text? Then you've got some skills, too. Well done, friend.

This was recorded at Arches National Park a while back, on a cold, cold morning. It was a great time to read this wonderful Mary Oliver poem about mornings (and happiness and goodness).I apologize that the sound quality on this is so lousy. I am clearly no professional sound engineer, and there is all sorts of clipping and sound that's blown out by the wind and my poor mic skills. I did what I could to fix it, but frankly, I'm just guessing here.One of my favorite things about recording these on outdoor excusrions is that the sound, for me at least, evokes a powerful memory of the place. I get more ambiance than with just a photo. Does it evoke for you, too? And these places, being there or just remembering being there, helps me live in happiness, in kindness. I hope it inspires joy for you, too.

Squelchy, snowy hike up the Big Springs trail on a day that couldn't decide what weather felt right. There's a particular beauty in being in a monochromatic landscape like this; it makes me feel small and vulnerable.I've spent much too much time indoors this winter, and I feel more out of shape than I ever have before. I get out of breath more quickly, and the muscles on my legs are less defined than ever beore. It'll take some work this spring and summer to get back to where I was. A poem about middle age seems appropriate right now.

It's a new year, and a new season of Lucky Words. Or, rather, it's a new season! Of Lucky Words! I'm back! And I'm glad you're back, too. I've missed you; I hope you've missed me, too.It is almost National Poetry Month again, and so it's time to fire up the old recorder and get out hiking. Spring is springing (slowly), and it is a perfect time to be outdoors.This was recorded sitting in my car at a trailhead in Moab, Utah. Something was a little wonky with the recorder (although it is probably more likely to be user error), so it sounds blown-out in parts when I get too enthusiastic. It’s easy to be enthusiastic about Billy Collins. Some of you have already heard the story about how he convinced me to buy a new car.This is a great poem, and it is good to be enthusiastic about.

There is a lot more that could be said about sonnet 20, but this should serve as a nice introduction to this one, especially for you listeners who are not regular readers of Shakespeare's sonnets. This is one of the crazy ones, or at least one of the difficult-to-categorize-Shakesepeare's-sexuality ones. I recorded this while out birding one morning (yes, I am a middle aged white male: so what?) and I had to edit out probably three or four planes landing or taking off. Not exactly the quietest place to record. I tried to get rid of them all while recording, but I'm obviously not a professional audio engineer, who would have made me do a few sentences over from scratch. But that would of course require that I worked form a script, which is pretty obviously not the case if you've listened to an episode or two. For the text of the poem, or more things to read, come on over to visit at jeffreywindsor.net.

It's a lunchtime post -- or, rather, it's a lunchtime recording. I took a hike at lunchtime and recorded while I was hiking (literally, which is why my breathing is a little more apparent than usual) right before I stopped to eat. Today's poem is one that has been my favorite since about 1990, when I first read the poem. I was living in Brazil at the time as a Mormon missionary, and a girl sent this poem to me in a letter. I've never forgotten the poem (although shortly thereafter the girl forgot me and married someone else. It all worked out in the end: I married Kate) and think about it often. For such a simple, little narrative poem it packs a long, thought-provoking tail.For more, as always, go to jeffreywindsor.net

For the second of our look together at some of Shakespeare's sonnets, today's selection is the most famous: sonnet 18, the famous "Shall I comapre thee to a summer's day?" The only sonnet that rivals it in popular consciousness is Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." I approach this with a little reticence, since it's such well-trod territory, but it helps to fill in the whole narrative that I will be explaining as time goes on. So I press on and am posting it anyway. Don't like my interpretation? Let me know.I recorded this on the most beautiful day of the whole year so far. Surely there will be nicer days in the future, but today is the finest since before winter began months ago. It is a perfect day to read about summer's days, even though it's just spring.As always, there's more for you to read at http://jeffreywindsor.net

For Easter, a discussion of George Herbert's "Easter Wings." Recorded while out on a hike on a beautiful afternoon in the foothills under Mt. Timpanogos in beautiful Utah.

Text of this poem (and all the other episodes of Lucky Words) are available at jeffreywindsor.net.

Just a quick one today to remind you that National Poetry Month is coming back in April, and Lucky Words will be there, too, with another season of poems in the ourdoors. If the weather holds (it won't), this will be a perfect year for being outdoors in the mountain west. Today it is a perfect temperature and humidity: this is what heaven feels like to me. 55 degrees and sunny with a slight breeze and some moisture on the ground. Hot dang it's a good time to be alive.## Text of poem"There is no Frigate like a Book" by Emily DickinsonThere is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away, Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll – How frugal is the Chariot That bears a Human soul. Side note: in addition to this podcast, you might check out my website and newsletter for some essays and quotes and other fun stuff that overlaps nicely with Lucky Words. Check it out at jeffreywindsor.net. (I know: it's a very creative name. What can I say? It's a gift.) Thanks.

Happy Fourth of July! It's Independence Day, and I'm finally putting up a new post. Today's recording was actually over an hour long, most of which was my listening to a fellow hiker tell me all his stories about encounters with Sasquach. I have no idea what to do with that.

Happy Bloomsday! For this holiday, I've released the first non-poetry Lucky Words! I am sure you are as excited as I am. Actually, as this hits the internets, I am camping with a bunch of Boy Scouts: getting sunburnt, making fires, sleeping in the dirt. It would be great if I weren't in charge of keeping a bunch of fifteen-year old boys from buring down a national forest. If you haven't heard of any major fires in national forests, I'm doing ok.

I recorded this midway on a hike last week, watching the spring run-off block my path. What I do not explain in the recording is that the angle where the run-off crossed the trail was steep enough and the flow was strong enough that I wasn't brave enough to ford it. After recording this, I turned around and walked back to the trailhead. It was shorter than I had planned, but it wasn't a bad hike. I stretched my legs and I thought some thoughts -- so: mission accomplished. Also, if you're reading this, you might want to note that you can read the whole text of this poem -- and all the poems I read -- on the website.

The long quiet section before the poem is me standing still, trying to keep a very large moose feeling calm and unthreatened. It must have worked, because he did not trample me, but wandered off in the opposite direction. Whoa, nelly: that was awesome in all senses of the word.

I was on a dusty, dry trail somewhere in the American Fork canyon, all by myself (except for the bee that interrupted me while I was recording. You can hear it at the end). Being all by myself made me think of this poem by Whitman who had a thing or two to say about the way people interact with each other.

Enough with the heavy Wordsworth! (OK, not forever, but for a little while, at least.) You have probably read this poem before; it's often read in schools. But don't let that turn you off: look at how Dickinson uses her awesome, creative diction here; note how she describes the snake without using any conventional descriptors of a snake. Its clever-quotient is high, but it doesn't feel twee or too-clever-by-half.

Huzzah! We've made it! I'm sorry this took a while to post, but here is a reading of the complete text of William Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." I recorded this at various stops on a hike up along the Deer Creek - Dry Creek trail in the Lone Peak Wilderness. It's a spectacular area and a great hike -- until I reached the water flowing under a snow field and didn't want to risk a crossing. It was visibly hollow underneath and I didn't want to fall into the icy running water. Good thing I wasn't peak bagging, so it was easy to just turn and head back to the car. I'll be returning to some shorter, stand-alone poems for a while before embarking on a long poem like this again. I do hope it was worth it, however. I'd be delighted if you let me know what you think.

This is the final episode that discusses individual sections of Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." If you're just joining us, start at episode 131, where the poem actually begins. Next time: the whole poem, uninterrupted! How exciting! I got a fancy new digital recorder (thanks, generous listener!), but now I have to learn the appropriate technique for field recording. Lesson for today: turn off your dang cell phone. This was in glorious stereo, but I had to reduce it to mono to cut out a bunch of obnoxious digital interference. Well, now I know. Anyone have any good tips/resources to help me out?

Wordsworth is getting kinda depressing here. All by itself, this section doesn't have the punch that it gets in context. We'll be at a full read soon, and then, I hope, the whole thing will make good sense. It's such a great poem, but it does require some effort to get the whole thing. Recorded while camping, and I almost made the life-altering decision to grab a rattlesnake as it slithered by. I didn't know it was a rattlesnake at the time, not until it started shaking its tail at me. It was pretty obvious then. I ran away, quickly. I'm grateful it was closer to 60F than to 90. That would have been an ugly end to, well, everything. NOTE TO LISTENERS: do not pick up snakes unless you look at the tail section first.

This is the third episode about Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." If you're just joining us, start at episode 131, where the poem actually begins. We are at the good part of the poem. The first few lines of the fifth section are the most famous of the poem. They are lines I have heard quoted over pulpits all my life, but as you'll hear, I don't think Wordsworth would have liked the interpretation that's often given there. Good thing he's not around to get all snooty about it. May is a crazy month. When I recorded this, the weather was sunny and warm and beautiful. As I edit this, it is overcast and cold and in the 40s. It snowed yesterday! It'll be beautiful again in a day or so, I'm sure.

Recorded while I was fishing (or maybe just casting, since I didn't catch any fish) and sat down to record this. Happy program note: all the background bird sounds were just recorded with my one single mic right there when they show up in the recording. I don't know how to add things in post (I'm not exactly sure I'm using the phrase "in post" correctly); it's all just serendipity. And who doesn't love serendipity?

The first of five or six episodes on this poem, so we can spend a little time discussing it one stanza at a time. At the end, I'll read the whole thing straight through, and it'll mean a lot more to you then (I hope). **CRITICAL NOTE**: I do not know what my mouth was doing when I say the title of this poem. It is called "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." You know and I know that the second word is "intimations" and **not** "imitations." And yet, somehow I said "imitations" twice. I am so embarrassed. But I am also no longer sitting by the Provo river and can't correct my embarrassing mistake. Forgive me, friend.

Recorded by the Diamond Fork River, but there was a bunch of obnoxious wind that sometimes you'll hear with lousy noise. Endure through it and you'll learn about a great poem by Walt Whitman. It's about death, but listen anyway. Would you be interested in supporting this podcast? I would be interested in receiving your support. Visit https://www.patreon.com/jeffreywindsor for details and rewards.

Recorded in my father's-in-law truck on a dirt road between Spanish Fork and Springville, on my way to Hobble Creek. It was raining, and I decided to turn around, but the road was deserted so I just stopped right there and recorded this episode. I didn't mention in the recording that this poem is a villanelle, which is a quirky little form that requires a lot of planning on the poet's part. The repeated lines that echo and then repeat in the final stanza? That's the villanelle at work. There's usually something kind of audacious about a villanelle, but this poem pulls it off so effectively, it is as if the entire form were created just for this one use, right here.

These two poems are favorites of mine (aren't they all?), and I love the way the comment on each other. I discussed mostly how Wendell Berry's poem seems to be deeply antisocial but, upon some reflection, really isn't. But there's a lot more to say than just this. Check the show notes or the website for some more thought-provoking questions.

Recorded in my secret grading-fishing spot (hint: it's south of Provo) because it's beautiful and secluded and quiet and I can change out of my pants and into my waders by the side of the road and never worry about anyone driving by and seeing me pantsless.

Recorded on a quiet, little used trail while I sat down to eat something and rest a while. Actually, even though the trail had very few human tracks, and though I thought I was leaving the trail to a place of untouched solitude, I found a bunch of garbage within a single pace of where I sat. There's nothing that says "I'm in the authentic backcountry" like sunbleached beer cans and balls of aluminum foil and brittle plastic wrappers.

Recorded at night, while camping in southern Utah, under a clear, dark sky of a million million stars. I love camping, but I love it more when I've got Kate with me.

Recorded a couple of days ago after finishing a couple of slot canyons called Ding and Dang. They're outside Goblin Valley. They're not difficult, I think rated just 2BII, but having a handicapped twenty-something man in our party made it into a much more intense adventure. It was, in fact, one of the greatest things I feel I have ever done outside. What a great day. And so I'm going to read a great poem, too.

Recorded while on the outskirts of the San Rafael Swell, where I could not find anywhere that was completely out of the wind. But even if it isn't a great place to record, it is one of my favorite places, and I am so grateful to live close enough that I get to visit a couple of times a year.

I have inherited my sense of direction from my mother, who has learned that, when in doubt, she should go exactly the opposite of what feels like the right direction. I get lost all the time, and absolutely depend on the topo map app on my phone. I recorded this while trying to find my way to the right trail, which eventually required a little off-trail bushwhacking.

I had something of a haiku moment: sitting by the side of a trail and watching the grass bend in the wind. I felt like maybe I should learn some more haiku, but then I decided that the feeling of needing more is probably antithetical to what I was feeling at the time.

It's the day after the last day of classes for the semester, and so I chose this poem about offices and businesses. I think it's funny that my students think that they are the only ones who are glad at the end of a term. Recorded on the Little Baldy trail, which my children will probably think is a funny and appropriate name considering the state of my scalp.

Recorded in the rain, but under a pavilion. You can hear both the river and the car traffic near me. This is such a great poem, however, that I didn't want to wait, but I did skip a critical part of the analysis: that's what I get for doing it in one take and without notes. Check the website for details about what I skipped.

Recorded at about 5:00pm, not so coincidentally, for obvious reasons.  For a number of years I somehow mixed up this poem with Francisco Goya's painting "The Third of May, 1808" which isn't about bullfighting at all, but rather about the Spanish Civil War. Even now, there's some weird overlap in my head, that I still imagine the (totally unrelated) painting with this poem. There are worse things, I suppose. 

Recorded on the Dry Canyon trail, just sitting down on a rock. This is perhaps the most popular poem that I've read on Lucky Words yet, but it's still not nearly as well known as it should be. 

Happy Easter, everyone! For this Sabbath holiday I've chosen a holy sonnet by John Donne. This poem is about Jesus' second coming rather than his atoning sacrifice, so I guess it's not a perfect Easter poem, but it's still pretty close. It's in the right ballpark. This is recorded while sitting on a tree over a stream, and there's a lot of water noise in the background. It might not make great audio, but it was a fun place to record.

It's a little weird for me to read this poem about race and America, but that's not stopping me. Just a short episode today, recorded on the Curley Springs trail.

Longest episode yet, but in part because it's a longish poem. And I barely scratch the surface here. We could easily spend an hour on this one alone and just start digging in. But you don't need that much time to start to appreciate it. And on a lovely Good Friday, you'll be a better person after reading this poem. Recorded while hiking up Dry Canyon, above Lindon, Utah. 

You could stop listening at 4:45 if you want just the standard experience, or you can keep listening beyond for a special bonus (*bonus!*) story that kinda-sorta-almost relates to the poem. It's a personal story, and it makes me laugh, but no guarantees that it'll have the same effect on you. I'd be curious: do you have any good fruit-related stories to share? Visit luckywords.squarespace.com and let me know.

Recorded while I was unwilling to hike any further up the snowcovered and avalanche-prone Mount Timpanogos. I love the trail, but I don't want to get caught in a avalanche, and I've seen them from too close up there in the past. So I recorded this podcast about a great modernist poem.

Recorded while hiking up the Squaw Peak trail again, in a spot with lots of wind and hence the distracting and omnipresent wind noise. Still, an awesome poem that you probably haven't head before because it's a translation from a fragment of an Old English (Anglo-Saxon) manuscript.

Recorded while hiking through the snow on the Stewart Falls trail above Sundance. It's technically the Stewart Cascade trail, but no one around here calls it that. It's just Stewart Falls. I didn't make it too the falls, however: too much snow and too little trail. But it was still a nice hike.