From Tuolumne

We were in Bakersfield at the airport.
You, acclimating at eight thousand feet,
urging local bears to keep their distance.
Red wine works wonders for your corpuscles
where oxygen is harder to suck in.
We arrive with no libations, plan on
drinking the water at elevation.

I opted for hormones over the gym,
swell like a blowfish at higher contours.
Roger makes tea at High Sierra Camp,
to forestall any stroke threatening me.
I always spoil all of your fun, you squeak.
Melody intervenes with chocolate,
cures the altitude bends. I breathe again.

On the downslope, I consider revenge
on you with the two original knees,
leave it to karma or foraging cubs.
Do I care that your old high school girlfriend
hiked this faster with her kankle broken,
or that I am reduced to second string?

We are sisters and not competitors.
Our hiking friends accept the obvious.
You are younger and taller and stronger,
and I am gimpy with poor perfusion.
Bears see you only as the next hors d’oeuvre,
while I am a tasty take-home dinner.