Book Review: Guterson, David. Turn Around Time. “A Walking Poem for the Pacific Northwest.” Seattle: Mountaineers Press, 2019. 142 pages.

Guterson, David.  Turn Around Time.  “A Walking Poem for the Pacific Northwest.”  Seattle:  Mountaineers Press, 2019.  142 pages.

By Doug Simpson

            David Guterson, best known as a novelist, especially for the outstanding Snow Falling on Cedars, of late has been writing primarily poetry.  Turn Around Time, his second volume of poems, as the subtitle suggests, is about hiking in the Northwest.  The Seattle-born and raised Guterson has been a lifetime hiker.  He began his outings with elder relatives in the
Cascades, and then as an adult now living on Bainbridge Island, he is really into hiking in the Olympic Mountains, mostly described in this volume.

            The book is not for everyone, even every hiker, as it is rather scholarly in its vocabulary, its frequent literary allusions, and its random style without much narrative continuity.  The title refers to heading back after an outing, though it has “in” and “out” sections.  It has twelve chapters that range in length from three pages to five, with lots of quality illustrations by Justin Gibbens.

            The poetry is free verse (no rhyme or meter) in five line stanzas with two lines added to conclude each chapter.  To see if the poem appeals to you, here are three excerpts that seem ti nem more cogent to.

                        They say the key to walking well is joy, 

                        not pain relief, but who are they?

                        Since joy could rout us from the trail later  

                        and a switchback implies a return.

                        A cautionary shrink might say much production

                        Leads surely to dearth, and therefore, pilgrim,

                        walk undeterred, keep to the middle way. 

                        We’ll go that way among diverse “walks”—

                        this way, tall, on, away, on by, on the wild side, 

                        on sunshine, the line, with me, the dog, on water,  (p. 88, 1-10)

            . . .        Time leads no guides except those without a reference.

                        What do we do, then, absent correspondence?

                        Certain travelers prefer the downhill runaround

                        and plodding scrutiny across—

                        fine in summer, risky otherwise.

                        though those who take a line

                        can blow it too, as can those, deploying inference,

                        who enter trail builders’ brains,

                        reading hills as if they held a pick in hand

                        and had to wield it.       (p. 130, 1-10)

            . . .        We might end in limbo.

                        We might free-fall snow-blind

                        with our lives painted on our glasses.

                        Let’s close a circle in this world, then:

                        There’s a late slant of light to get home in.

                        We’ll bring back freedom,

                        mingle in markets.

                        streams will meander,

                        flowers grow,

                        and love pour out of mountains.  (p. 139, 11-20)