The Jumper

Pine Mountain Slide

Iron Mountain, Michigan.

1957

Temp is near zero and it has breezed-up,

but it’s not a patch to a Mainer who’s properly rigged.

Clambering up the scaffold, slung skis whacking my back all the way,

is a chore that certainly helps with the chill.

This is higher than the towers of St. Peter and St. Paul

reaching for heaven near the Androscoggin.

The hewn-log hut perched atop this erector-set

might just fit my Chevrolet -

filled now with a raucus, foot-stomping squad

that doesn’t seem to mind the un-subtle sway

or the creaks and the cracks.

A bottle is handed around as we men wait.

I whip out my pen-knife and scribe initials

into a rough sap-stained wall as quickly as I can,

adding to the fraternity of similar carvings.

Grains of sawdust whip away

when the blanket over the door is pulled back.

Cigarettes are tossed into the small potbellied stove.

Smoke curdles inside the bright poles

glancing down from holes punched into the roof.

Rudy Maki, leaning into the corner next to the heat,

jerks his chin, prompting me to make tracks.

My predecessor clumps forward to the open front,

arms out for balance, his form bisected

in sudden sunlight as he emerges.

Motes of dust surround him like angels.

An old army sargeant, scarf tucked into his field jacket,

brays out my name and coughs.

I unlimber my slats to the floor, and seat my boots firmly.

When I look up, the jumper ahead of me is gone from the gate.

I’m motioned forward by a man wearing olympic rings on his jacket.

There is frost on his beard, whiskey fills his breath. “You want out, kid?”

“Voyons?” my upbringing slips out. “Hell, no!”

“Go get ‘em, then.” He slaps my shoulder and pivots away.

My mind outpaces my awkward shuffle-steps, until

I’m out of the dark and my white future curves down before me,

gleaming.

I jerk my wool cap tight, lower my aviator goggles, adjust my sweater,

waggle into the ice-ruts and form my bowed stance…

ritual complete and then the moment of equipoise.

One push- a forward lean- and gravity will grab on

in a one-man drag race, as with so many jumps before.

It’s good the other guy didn’t auger-in, I hear no sirens.

The sky is a boundless curve of baby blue, the sun over my shoulder,

my shadow pools across the waxed tips of my hickory planks.

The flags lining the ramp snap sharp as gunshots.

They must be announcing me a quarter-mile below,

the sussurus of the cheering crowd is just audible above the wind noise.

“Whenever you’re ready, jumper!” comes the call from the dark hall behind me.

The fastest route back to my girl is right down this hill,

So I swallow, rise up, and heave.

Note: for Dick Field, RIP