So, two hikers, lost
In Lost Creek,

Asked to follow me
To our cars.

There’s no disgrace
In getting lost;

Rather the opposite.
You wouldn’t know

Any ancient Greeks
By name had they turned

Promptly home and calmly
Docked by lunch.

Yet, every step we took,
Those Minnesotans and me,

I wondered who
Was robbing whom:

They me, of my Golden Fleece,
My solitude;

Or me them, of their
Triumphant return,

Their Penelopes, hungry
After all these years,

Aroused by every half healed scar,
Every punishing bruise of the gods.

Anyway, we arrived at the parking lot
And I took their picture

Before driving myself
Home over Kenosha pass,

Safe and alone in my car
Listening to Bach

Without much to note
Except a mosquito bite or two.