As feet padded towards the trailer door I prepared to greet a 21 year old black male and remind him to vote for Barack Obama in Saturday's primary. I asked the young man if he had voted yet. He hadn't but was planning to. It seemed redundant to ask if he knew who he was intending to vote for. With an Obama pin and stickers festooning my jacket, it also felt like asking a leading question. At certain points we wondered if we were knocking on doors to get out the vote so frequently that we were in danger of encouraging the vote with the same fervency that others applied to restrict the vote in decades past in such impoverished, minority communities in the semi rural South. Were we not being a tad patronizing walking through the streets talking to old men on porches, young men working on cars, middle aged folks bringing home a bag of groceries, reminding them about Barack? They watch TV, they listen to the radio, they talk to friends and family, shouldn't they be allowed to make up their own minds about Barack and Hillary and John? We weren't concentrating our efforts in quite the same way with white democrats in our region.
As 30ish white folks dressed in high end outdoor gear to combat the unusual chill we tread a fine line between youthful, energetic campaigners and pesky religion peddlers toting our simplistic flyers demonstrating how to vote instead of tracts. We were, of course, a tiny part of a much broader effort in South Carolina. Those targeted as likely Obama supporters received innumerable phone calls in the days leading up to the election and visits to their doors with literature and friendly faces encouraging them to support this worthy candidate. Weathered piles of promotional literature on some porches served as an eerie testament to the number of visits this election season. Our own answering machine blinked feverishly with messages from Barack, Michelle, Hillary, and their supporters. It is rare for a South Carolina democrat to feel so popular.
"I'm planning to vote for Hillary." I tried to mask my shock at the incongruity of the young man's response. I thanked him for his time and handed him the glossy promotional material anyway as I asked him to think about it and get to the polls regardless of who he selected. Maybe he'll change his mind if he makes it to the booth. I paused for a minute before knocking on the next door. Even from the steps of a trailer in a grim, segregated neighborhood a young man might somehow not be inspired to vote for Barack. We couldn't make assumptions. Every door needed a knock, every phone number a call. Every voter should have graphic information to help them vote because there will be a few that cannot read and asked us to help them identify the candidate's name on the voting screen. Others will need that hotline number to arrange a ride to the polls. Another young man answered the next door. He was a supporter but said he couldn't vote because of a charge. It would be interesting to examine how the alarming statistics relating to the incarceration of black males might impact this election.
Cognizant that some people will not be legal or will have previous convictions preventing them from ever voting, we tried to avoid questions that might pressure such disclosure. However, we encountered more than a few people who freely acknowledged why they couldn't vote before we asked anything. I was especially surprised by the middle aged Mexican man who spoke enough English and understood our broken Spanish sufficiently to convey that he had no papers and was here illegally. We thanked him for his time and regretted that we didn't have the Spanish to tell him that in this part of the world where you overhear conversations about tightening our borders and building fences that he probably shouldn't say that to random strangers at the door.
We scare mangy cats off rickety steps in our efforts to reach these doors. We knock because there are few working bells. We see a house with part of an exterior wall missing, windows that have exchanged a pane or two of glass for cloth or cardboard. Some of these places exude cold and are dimly lit by one light bulb hanging from a longish cord in the center of the room. Others house old men in cozy, cluttered rooms where we are invited to warm by the gas heater. There are the tidy homes of elderly women with plastic flowers arranged in window boxes and a sprawling clump of cactus or tropical vine that defies our climate, especially on a blustery January day. Almost everyone in this neighborhood has a porch. Some drink on them as evidenced by the bottles and the butts, some cook often on little grills over charcoal, some socialize around candles and plants and cozy knick knacks. We dodge the futile advances of chained dogs ever alert for one that is unchained.
We meet overwhelmingly with support even though a considerable number of the names and addresses on our list of likely supporters don't match. Some pull over in their cars to thank us for what we are doing. Two white people--both young--in the course of two days in this neighborhood have startingly similar reactions: the frozen stare, the shaking head, the I'm not voting for him. A third pulls over and asks for a flier. We won't know if we made a little difference by changing the minds of a few Hillary supporters or provided that last bit of motivation to a few people who were not sure they felt like venturing out to vote. We don't know if we've kept a few others from voting in reaction to our barrage of entreaties. We learn later that all of us door knockers and phone callers and rally goers have passed the ultimate evaluation: Obama wins by a landslide.
Earlier this month I proudly staked the first Obama for America sign I could get out on the nearest main route which also happens to be where my mailbox resides. At least 2 square feet of real estate on the Huckabee Highway would stand for change. When I went to get the mail the next day I found the sign keeled over, bent but not broken--an apt metaphor for liberals here--by the visible crush of a car wheel. I fixed the sign and relocated it across the road where it would be harder for a passing motorist to target. In less than a week the sign was stolen. I know that living in an especially conservative part of a conservative state can color perspective but I felt discouraged that the multiple Americas that exist here could come together sufficiently to vault a win.
On the stage at a rally just before the election I looked wearily at the machine gun sentries positioned along rooftops and FBI agents scanning the crowd so thoroughly that I was afraid to fish around in my pocket for a cough drop. From this stage where Obama delivered his stump speech, I had the opportunity to take in the diverse, energetic assemblage. An elderly supporter told me of his youth growing syrup cane, cotton and corn as we discussed the campaign. At the rally, in the presence of such an inspiring candidate, surrounded by people representing a couple few Americas, I realized that it was possible, that we could come together for the more than a couple few things that need to change here and everywhere else in our country.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Down by the Shoals
Wrapped in my bright orange Marmot fleece jacket, a false security blanket in the gun riddled woods of a hunting season, I stride into the local produce shack. The boarded up windows, and closed wooden door, propped open in better weather, are familiar. I am undeterred by the darkness of the little place nestled against a dark creek beneath an even darker wooded hillside. “Open, Come on In.” scribbled across a little white paper on the door catches my eye as I enter into the dark shed. A middle aged couple merge into each other and over their chairs and greet me between sips of ice tea. I mumble something back, still frustrated by the uncomfortable pause as my brain searches to translate their salutation and craft an appropriate response (hi, hey y’all, howdy, afternoon). Even with overhead fluorescent lights the cramped space feels dimly lit. A smaller world plays out on the black and white TV. It’s an old movie, something from the early 60s probably, involving a boy, a girl, their father. I am drawn to the blaring sound and beams of light. A man, 60? 80?, sporting an authentic orange cammo hat walks towards me and says something. Or maybe not. He is roaming, he is mumbling. He is either speaking to me or the middle aged couple or to the wall of glass jars in an accent so thick that it defies comprehension or he’s exploring in his own language. Lester, the proprietor, is procuring boiled peanuts, our state’s official snack food thanks to recent legislation, from the metal vats in the far corner for a younger couple. She likes them spicy and she’s in luck because he announces to everyone, that he has “Leesyanna style.” She smiles. I grab the jug of plain old cider from the shelves of Scuppernongs and inventive combinations of fruity juices and forage for apples.
Locals sell apples from North Carolina. In late fall you know the good stands are the ones that bring the apples in at night like Lester. By January, no one around here has anything out, and most of the stands, like the one down the road that advertises KNIVES and produce on their sign are closed. My eyes move around the peanuts, dried apple rings, and preserves to the center display where my brain registers only sundry, used junk possibly not for sale. I have looked at this before and still can’t recall what is on this island except for the fact that it is not fresh produce or a food item of interest. There on the floor is a box of apples. Could this be the last box Lester has for the season? A couple months ago the place was clogged with varieties proudly displayed on tables. I rifle through the old apples tossed aside like last week’s bread and fill my cloth sack, providing entertainment for the couple in their chairs. The old man wanders around me snacking on a bag of peanuts. Lester is talking to the young couple at the cash register. I put my jug and sack on the counter and look at the bowl of roasted peanuts bearing the invitation PLEASE just one. I haven’t eaten one of Lester’s peanuts: roasted, salted, or boiled. I am embarrassed to admit I have never even had a boiled peanut, never felt compelled to stop at Lester’s or anyone else’s peanut stand to let the damp mush of juices slide down my face as my tongue fished the hot, young nuts from their soggy shells. Now it’s getting to be too late as good boiled peanuts are already out of season. My reverie of missed opportunity is broken by Lester’s question about the weather. How about the snow? It’s beautiful I say. It was easy for me enjoy the winter wonderland we woke to the other morning from my expansive hillside perch and my lack of travel obligations. But the roads he cautions, we’re supposed to get more tomorrow. Be careful. I thank him and nod at the middle aged couple still in chairs sipping iced tea, watching the movie. The old man with peanuts steps aside. I head into the chill afternoon inspired by Lester to have a good one.
Locals sell apples from North Carolina. In late fall you know the good stands are the ones that bring the apples in at night like Lester. By January, no one around here has anything out, and most of the stands, like the one down the road that advertises KNIVES and produce on their sign are closed. My eyes move around the peanuts, dried apple rings, and preserves to the center display where my brain registers only sundry, used junk possibly not for sale. I have looked at this before and still can’t recall what is on this island except for the fact that it is not fresh produce or a food item of interest. There on the floor is a box of apples. Could this be the last box Lester has for the season? A couple months ago the place was clogged with varieties proudly displayed on tables. I rifle through the old apples tossed aside like last week’s bread and fill my cloth sack, providing entertainment for the couple in their chairs. The old man wanders around me snacking on a bag of peanuts. Lester is talking to the young couple at the cash register. I put my jug and sack on the counter and look at the bowl of roasted peanuts bearing the invitation PLEASE just one. I haven’t eaten one of Lester’s peanuts: roasted, salted, or boiled. I am embarrassed to admit I have never even had a boiled peanut, never felt compelled to stop at Lester’s or anyone else’s peanut stand to let the damp mush of juices slide down my face as my tongue fished the hot, young nuts from their soggy shells. Now it’s getting to be too late as good boiled peanuts are already out of season. My reverie of missed opportunity is broken by Lester’s question about the weather. How about the snow? It’s beautiful I say. It was easy for me enjoy the winter wonderland we woke to the other morning from my expansive hillside perch and my lack of travel obligations. But the roads he cautions, we’re supposed to get more tomorrow. Be careful. I thank him and nod at the middle aged couple still in chairs sipping iced tea, watching the movie. The old man with peanuts steps aside. I head into the chill afternoon inspired by Lester to have a good one.
What's the Matter with Missouri?
I should have been more troubled by tumbleweed the size of Smart Cars cutting us off as we cruised across North Texas. We previously passed this open plain under the cover of darkness blissfully unaware that tumbleweeds were casting about across the highway. I should have been more dispirited by the sameness of landscape that is central Oklahoma in winter. Traveling across our nation’s midriff in late December is to see the verdant greens of rippling pastures and amber waves of grain reduced to dead browns and gray. To see a lone horse in a field looking for death. The air is cold, ice or snow threatens with every forecast. I searched for beauty, for solace in this hung-over, end time of year when the landscape, like me, is not looking at its best. Hawks enjoy the blankness and are perched with startling regularity along utility poles and fence posts.
I should have been happy with the hawks. But there was something about Missouri. Maybe it was because we were already in the thick of the winter grays and browns that the place looked particularly dismal. There’s something else too that was unsettling. Red states tend to have a lot of churches, mega and mini, situated along or advertised on the highways. The more churches it seems, the healthier the adult services industry: videos, massage parlors, specialty shops, etc. Missouri has this classic combination of religious and sexual offerings. But it also has a thriving novelty industry forming a unique triumvirate and interesting experience for a traveler pondering the state of our culture, trying to understand the shades of purple in a red state/blue state nation. Teddy bear factories, mementos from Precious Moments, a surprising number of outlets serve as hallmarks to sentimental gift giving. A visitor to the show me state can watch an adult video, wander aisles of stuffed animals, and observe the saving of souls all in one highway exit. And if this isn’t enough, the traveler is frequently reminded of the country music acts from the 60’s and 70’s that they forgot existed. Are the Oak Ridge Boys really on stand by for charter buses in Branson? Apparently country music legends and has beens don’t just hole up in oversized log houses in the hills outside Nashville, they live in music halls in Branson eagerly awaiting your visit.
If it wasn’t for an engine light near St. Louis I might never have walked around in Missouri. We strolled away from the dealership in Southtown and relaxed in the timeless ambiance of Uncle Bill’s Pancake House. The hot cakes and syrup redeemed our long day across Missouri to the extent that I was inspired to look back and through the arch as we crossed into Illinois and feel a tinge of yearning to explore the places in the middle instead of focusing westward or eastward, to dwell a little bit in the center.
I should have been happy with the hawks. But there was something about Missouri. Maybe it was because we were already in the thick of the winter grays and browns that the place looked particularly dismal. There’s something else too that was unsettling. Red states tend to have a lot of churches, mega and mini, situated along or advertised on the highways. The more churches it seems, the healthier the adult services industry: videos, massage parlors, specialty shops, etc. Missouri has this classic combination of religious and sexual offerings. But it also has a thriving novelty industry forming a unique triumvirate and interesting experience for a traveler pondering the state of our culture, trying to understand the shades of purple in a red state/blue state nation. Teddy bear factories, mementos from Precious Moments, a surprising number of outlets serve as hallmarks to sentimental gift giving. A visitor to the show me state can watch an adult video, wander aisles of stuffed animals, and observe the saving of souls all in one highway exit. And if this isn’t enough, the traveler is frequently reminded of the country music acts from the 60’s and 70’s that they forgot existed. Are the Oak Ridge Boys really on stand by for charter buses in Branson? Apparently country music legends and has beens don’t just hole up in oversized log houses in the hills outside Nashville, they live in music halls in Branson eagerly awaiting your visit.
If it wasn’t for an engine light near St. Louis I might never have walked around in Missouri. We strolled away from the dealership in Southtown and relaxed in the timeless ambiance of Uncle Bill’s Pancake House. The hot cakes and syrup redeemed our long day across Missouri to the extent that I was inspired to look back and through the arch as we crossed into Illinois and feel a tinge of yearning to explore the places in the middle instead of focusing westward or eastward, to dwell a little bit in the center.
No Country for a Prius
We leave her before the road ends, before we reach our destination. She’s carried us over the hilly corner of the Carolinas, across the breadth of Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, the square part of Texas, and a hefty chunk of New Mexico only to be left in a pullout because a layer cake of ice and snow separate wheels from the road. We are staying in a cabin about a half mile up a forest service road at the edge of a wilderness area made more remote by time of year and weather. I decided to spend the shortest days of the year in a Rocky Mountain version of a hollow with the laconic but lovable boys that are my husband and his brother. In all probability they could be the only other humans I interact with for a week. We are well provisioned, with ample food, gear for the chill and snow, and enough reading material to become lost in a dense forest of thoughts. We even have a couple of DVDs to watch on the laptop if the electricity holds. We were warned that it tends to go out this time of year.
A creek passes near the back door. Lanky spruce and fir border the cabin and cluster on the hillsides. Darkness comes early but the full moon provides an invitation to head up the powdery slopes. We reach a clearing and take in outlines of peaks and the dark heart of the long river valley stretching out from the nearby headwaters. We reach the end of the road, the one the little Prius couldn’t make it to. We spy a fire through the trees. Winter campers, no cars, must have hiked in or been dropped off. We can’t claim to be the only people in this part of the river valley tonight. Nor can we rest on our worn mantle of being the most hard core. For once we’re sleeping under a roof, taking showers, and indulging in the warmth of a woodstove while in a wilderness. A truck slogs against the snow and slope of the road. Maybe one of the campers. The truck turns around at the top and strains to brake on the slippery down slope. The driver rolls down the window. I’m taking in make, model, and any notably descriptive details. He gives his concern: are we okay? Is that our car down the road? We’re out for a hike, we’re okay thanks, and yes that is our car. The southern license plate doesn’t match our accents, the make and model do. The truck shuffles away. My companions remark on the man’s thoughtfulness. I’m regretting that I couldn’t see the plates on the bearded man’s late 70s Ford pickup because my eyes were fixed on the gun rack. Maybe they’re right, maybe this man drives snowy forest roads with his wolfish dog on winter evenings to make sure everyone and everything’s okay, to offer a hand if needed for the stray wayward traveler. Or maybe he’s ransacking through the Prius, confident that it would take us at least 45 minutes to get back to the car, disappointed that we left a bunch of world music CDs, sneakers, and dress clothes in the trunk. Good thing we didn’t get a fire going in the woodstove or he might have been alerted to the cabin, otherwise not visible from the road. The only cabin in this hamlet that appears to be occupied at the moment.
Snow and moon distort objects and shapes. A fallen basketball hoop looks beastly. Everything has shadows. I try to look out at the beauty of night through the expansive windows without the terror of imagination. Sun, a magical balm, inspires us to explore the lofty prospects above this shady nook. We weave through the aspen grove cognizant of when we are on the trail by the etchings into the aspen bark. Do the naturally occurring hieroglyphics encourage some to add their mark? Diego must have been especially inspired because his name appears with more frequency than a trail marker. We reach a mountaintop with views of peaks in all directions, stitched together in varying combinations of white, brown, and green depending on the ratio of meadow, aspen, and conifer. I could spend every day among the aspen beneath cobalt blue sky, sinking into downy snow. But my body won’t let me. The combination of altitude, sun, and frigid temperatures gnaw at me with a light headache, an unpleasant feeling that intensifies as the afternoon wares on. We make it back to the cabin at dusk and I barely find a seat before my head begins throbbing. I seek out the darkness of the living room, the couch, the warmth of the fire in the stone hearth. The wood paneled doors, candelabras, and stone floor lend a medieval, new agey ambiance. I writhe on the couch, my head taking on new levels of tightness. The impenetrable fortress of a room is hardly soundproof and my formerly quiet companions are lively in their preparations and consumption of a massive feast fit for a day of hard trail breaking in high, snowy hills. They speak of burritos as though one had never before touched their lips. My stomach pounds to a different rhythm than my head. Both were discordant. Is this what happens high on Everest? At what point does the throbbing in the skull, the intense pain behind the eye reach its ebb? What would it feel like to dissolve into nothing? How is it possible that I had flown into Denver and arrogantly climbed a 14,000ft peak the next day without incident but had driven to 9,500 feet, hiked to less than 12,000 and positioned myself as the next tourist to succumb to death by altitude. To die on Everest of altitude sickness is to lose yourself for your ultimate dream. To die in a fire lit room fit for Vincent Price after a day hike is pathetic. My husband checks on me and keeps the fire going but I become paranoid about expiring without notice during their feeding frenzy. Maybe the end isn't imminent but I can’t stop fixating on the idea that people experiencing altitude sickness need to descend to a lower elevation and the reality that my only way down was on foot to the car. Even if they could get the car up here it would take at least a couple hours on icy roads to get to a medical center. At what point does one seek medical treatment? The pain is intense but is it that bad? I decide to surf the waves of nausea, grip the sofa as the vice tightens in my head, and endure the torture of altitude sickness as long as possible. I bark at my companions to stop talking, the slightest sounds reverberating in my head. The flames from the hearth become a vital distraction. Somewhere late in the night, I fall asleep.
After a day spent alone in the cabin I am feverish to return to the hills, regardless of the health consequences. We move slowly, our focus shifts from a point on the map to the grazing of elk, the flutter of turkey’s wings, the plunge of an American Dipper--a nondescript grayish bird of medium build--into a swift, frigid creek in search of aquatic insects. I am especially surprised by the disconcerting snort of a bull whose mahogany hide was camouflaged by a clump of rusty Gambrel oak. Although steam rises off his body because of the temperature differential, I can't help but project anger. He is mad to have been missed when the herd was rustled up off the national forest late last summer. Since then he’s been wandering the hills, scavenging for food, and reduced to trudging up steep slopes in the snow. There are three of us, but I’m the one with the red gaiters that end at my knee. I’m also the smallest. I want to break into a run, but am stopped by the thought that the bull will strike at my bright legs. I carefully walk away, ready to tug at the zipper of the gaiters, to scramble up the nearest tree. We’re upslope of him and he’s not interested in a charge. I keep looking back though, just in case.
We set out in different directions, attempting to cover a radius of possibilities outward from the cabin. Some of these involve passing the car which is good because I need reassurance after thinking about it vandalized or stolen, the criminals laughing tearing up the note written in my husband’s Unabomber script on the dash: this car is not disabled. we are not lost. There were enough of those people lost off the road last winter on the news, no need to provoke a search party. We’d been warned that you couldn’t trust the “clowns” that came up here in winter. Unless you love lung searing air and deeply snowy woods, the other primary motives to explore the side valleys and hills involve breaking into the deserted mountain homes. We emerge from a grove of conifers at the end of a road and are startled by another pickup truck. The two casually dressed men in the cab ask what we’re doing. We say we’re out for a hike. They don’t seem to believe us. They want us to believe that they are going fishing. Ice laps at the edges of the frigid creeks running around here. I find it implausible to think of these men midweek, midday trout fishing. I’m not sure fishing is even allowed here in December. They also note something vague about checking on an uncle’s cabin on a nearby hill. We act like we believe them and let the truck roll away. Leave the Prius alone please. Let them think we drove up here for a day hike. I try not to think of these men staging their game plan midday for a midnight break in.
We fall into a comforting routine of gathering by the woodstove with cocoa after a day wandering and wood chopping. Read for a while, drink more hot beverages and then settle into the interior chamber to watch Dexter grapple with his serial killings while trying to solve the murders of others. By day my mind alights in Rocky Mountain highs, by night I stifle the growing palette of scenarios detailing our demise. Each involves the sketchy characters we encountered, a fullish moon, and the axes, chainsaw, and icy waters just outside the door. The faint, staticey connection on the radio warns of a big storm. We decide to leave a day early to beat the storm and head into the Prius Country that is Santa Fe. We hike near town, cross country ski through aspen, track elk across a snow dusted mesa, and wander through cheery downtown streets on Christmas Eve brightened by farolitos and luminarias, the songs of carolers, and copious cider and cocoa. By Christmas morning we are on the road again, Chicago bound.
A creek passes near the back door. Lanky spruce and fir border the cabin and cluster on the hillsides. Darkness comes early but the full moon provides an invitation to head up the powdery slopes. We reach a clearing and take in outlines of peaks and the dark heart of the long river valley stretching out from the nearby headwaters. We reach the end of the road, the one the little Prius couldn’t make it to. We spy a fire through the trees. Winter campers, no cars, must have hiked in or been dropped off. We can’t claim to be the only people in this part of the river valley tonight. Nor can we rest on our worn mantle of being the most hard core. For once we’re sleeping under a roof, taking showers, and indulging in the warmth of a woodstove while in a wilderness. A truck slogs against the snow and slope of the road. Maybe one of the campers. The truck turns around at the top and strains to brake on the slippery down slope. The driver rolls down the window. I’m taking in make, model, and any notably descriptive details. He gives his concern: are we okay? Is that our car down the road? We’re out for a hike, we’re okay thanks, and yes that is our car. The southern license plate doesn’t match our accents, the make and model do. The truck shuffles away. My companions remark on the man’s thoughtfulness. I’m regretting that I couldn’t see the plates on the bearded man’s late 70s Ford pickup because my eyes were fixed on the gun rack. Maybe they’re right, maybe this man drives snowy forest roads with his wolfish dog on winter evenings to make sure everyone and everything’s okay, to offer a hand if needed for the stray wayward traveler. Or maybe he’s ransacking through the Prius, confident that it would take us at least 45 minutes to get back to the car, disappointed that we left a bunch of world music CDs, sneakers, and dress clothes in the trunk. Good thing we didn’t get a fire going in the woodstove or he might have been alerted to the cabin, otherwise not visible from the road. The only cabin in this hamlet that appears to be occupied at the moment.
Snow and moon distort objects and shapes. A fallen basketball hoop looks beastly. Everything has shadows. I try to look out at the beauty of night through the expansive windows without the terror of imagination. Sun, a magical balm, inspires us to explore the lofty prospects above this shady nook. We weave through the aspen grove cognizant of when we are on the trail by the etchings into the aspen bark. Do the naturally occurring hieroglyphics encourage some to add their mark? Diego must have been especially inspired because his name appears with more frequency than a trail marker. We reach a mountaintop with views of peaks in all directions, stitched together in varying combinations of white, brown, and green depending on the ratio of meadow, aspen, and conifer. I could spend every day among the aspen beneath cobalt blue sky, sinking into downy snow. But my body won’t let me. The combination of altitude, sun, and frigid temperatures gnaw at me with a light headache, an unpleasant feeling that intensifies as the afternoon wares on. We make it back to the cabin at dusk and I barely find a seat before my head begins throbbing. I seek out the darkness of the living room, the couch, the warmth of the fire in the stone hearth. The wood paneled doors, candelabras, and stone floor lend a medieval, new agey ambiance. I writhe on the couch, my head taking on new levels of tightness. The impenetrable fortress of a room is hardly soundproof and my formerly quiet companions are lively in their preparations and consumption of a massive feast fit for a day of hard trail breaking in high, snowy hills. They speak of burritos as though one had never before touched their lips. My stomach pounds to a different rhythm than my head. Both were discordant. Is this what happens high on Everest? At what point does the throbbing in the skull, the intense pain behind the eye reach its ebb? What would it feel like to dissolve into nothing? How is it possible that I had flown into Denver and arrogantly climbed a 14,000ft peak the next day without incident but had driven to 9,500 feet, hiked to less than 12,000 and positioned myself as the next tourist to succumb to death by altitude. To die on Everest of altitude sickness is to lose yourself for your ultimate dream. To die in a fire lit room fit for Vincent Price after a day hike is pathetic. My husband checks on me and keeps the fire going but I become paranoid about expiring without notice during their feeding frenzy. Maybe the end isn't imminent but I can’t stop fixating on the idea that people experiencing altitude sickness need to descend to a lower elevation and the reality that my only way down was on foot to the car. Even if they could get the car up here it would take at least a couple hours on icy roads to get to a medical center. At what point does one seek medical treatment? The pain is intense but is it that bad? I decide to surf the waves of nausea, grip the sofa as the vice tightens in my head, and endure the torture of altitude sickness as long as possible. I bark at my companions to stop talking, the slightest sounds reverberating in my head. The flames from the hearth become a vital distraction. Somewhere late in the night, I fall asleep.
After a day spent alone in the cabin I am feverish to return to the hills, regardless of the health consequences. We move slowly, our focus shifts from a point on the map to the grazing of elk, the flutter of turkey’s wings, the plunge of an American Dipper--a nondescript grayish bird of medium build--into a swift, frigid creek in search of aquatic insects. I am especially surprised by the disconcerting snort of a bull whose mahogany hide was camouflaged by a clump of rusty Gambrel oak. Although steam rises off his body because of the temperature differential, I can't help but project anger. He is mad to have been missed when the herd was rustled up off the national forest late last summer. Since then he’s been wandering the hills, scavenging for food, and reduced to trudging up steep slopes in the snow. There are three of us, but I’m the one with the red gaiters that end at my knee. I’m also the smallest. I want to break into a run, but am stopped by the thought that the bull will strike at my bright legs. I carefully walk away, ready to tug at the zipper of the gaiters, to scramble up the nearest tree. We’re upslope of him and he’s not interested in a charge. I keep looking back though, just in case.
We set out in different directions, attempting to cover a radius of possibilities outward from the cabin. Some of these involve passing the car which is good because I need reassurance after thinking about it vandalized or stolen, the criminals laughing tearing up the note written in my husband’s Unabomber script on the dash: this car is not disabled. we are not lost. There were enough of those people lost off the road last winter on the news, no need to provoke a search party. We’d been warned that you couldn’t trust the “clowns” that came up here in winter. Unless you love lung searing air and deeply snowy woods, the other primary motives to explore the side valleys and hills involve breaking into the deserted mountain homes. We emerge from a grove of conifers at the end of a road and are startled by another pickup truck. The two casually dressed men in the cab ask what we’re doing. We say we’re out for a hike. They don’t seem to believe us. They want us to believe that they are going fishing. Ice laps at the edges of the frigid creeks running around here. I find it implausible to think of these men midweek, midday trout fishing. I’m not sure fishing is even allowed here in December. They also note something vague about checking on an uncle’s cabin on a nearby hill. We act like we believe them and let the truck roll away. Leave the Prius alone please. Let them think we drove up here for a day hike. I try not to think of these men staging their game plan midday for a midnight break in.
We fall into a comforting routine of gathering by the woodstove with cocoa after a day wandering and wood chopping. Read for a while, drink more hot beverages and then settle into the interior chamber to watch Dexter grapple with his serial killings while trying to solve the murders of others. By day my mind alights in Rocky Mountain highs, by night I stifle the growing palette of scenarios detailing our demise. Each involves the sketchy characters we encountered, a fullish moon, and the axes, chainsaw, and icy waters just outside the door. The faint, staticey connection on the radio warns of a big storm. We decide to leave a day early to beat the storm and head into the Prius Country that is Santa Fe. We hike near town, cross country ski through aspen, track elk across a snow dusted mesa, and wander through cheery downtown streets on Christmas Eve brightened by farolitos and luminarias, the songs of carolers, and copious cider and cocoa. By Christmas morning we are on the road again, Chicago bound.
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