Head For the Hills
Sunday, the sky hosting a cloud convention, we set out into the wind.
Two hawks ducking and diving down around the Coal Creek’s dry bends, "There’s bird us," Karen says.
The more altitude we gain, the colder we get under the collar. The more insistent the wind, the more the doomed Donner Party of 1846 comes up in conversation. 487 miles of the old Oregon Trail passed through what is now Wyoming; much of it still intact, all of it well south of here.
Animals that we are, we scan the ridgelines for easy passes; an eye out always for a wave of black dots to crest and gallop forward. We walk on warpaths, on blood trails; we follow deer tracks, fence lines, wind tunnels and draws. Wait. On these high plains, still so empty and yet so changed, it’s not hard to hear the hoof clatter and thud of bison falling.
"Isn’t it amazing how we can change the size of stuff just by moving our feet!," Karen says.
The wind freezes our faces, cuts though our conversation. I’m not saying we stopped talking, I’m saying it got harder. My lips went to the dentist, I Novocain-lisp. Karen can't control her cheeks: I’ve developed a foreign accent!
We power-walk home, clocking Olympic speeds.
"There’s our super model shadows," Karen says.
Heads down into the wind we simultaneously spot a milky white rock glowing in the late light – one rock broken into two. We coax our cold stiff fingers to pick up the pieces, to fit them together. An exact fit. We lift them apart. Let’s do it again! Back together. Apart. Together. A best friend rock.
Back in the schoolhouse, Jerome witnesses our unthawing. We show him the rock: together, apart, together, apart. We show him our sausage red fingers. Is your face pins and needles? Yes! Phew. We numb-bumble around the kitchen groping for food. Karen pulls a drawer open smack into my leg. We laugh our cheeks to pieces. The thaw hits our thighs in burning waves. I need to take my pants off right now, I say. I’ll avert my eyes, Jerome says. I need a bathtub! Tea! To never go outside again! Plates piled high with leftover Thanksgiving leftovers we made our exit. Jerome held the door. You’ve been a great audience, we tell him. Thanks, he says. We’re here all week.
. . . . .
Two hawks ducking and diving down around the Coal Creek’s dry bends, "There’s bird us," Karen says.
The more altitude we gain, the colder we get under the collar. The more insistent the wind, the more the doomed Donner Party of 1846 comes up in conversation. 487 miles of the old Oregon Trail passed through what is now Wyoming; much of it still intact, all of it well south of here.
Animals that we are, we scan the ridgelines for easy passes; an eye out always for a wave of black dots to crest and gallop forward. We walk on warpaths, on blood trails; we follow deer tracks, fence lines, wind tunnels and draws. Wait. On these high plains, still so empty and yet so changed, it’s not hard to hear the hoof clatter and thud of bison falling.
"Isn’t it amazing how we can change the size of stuff just by moving our feet!," Karen says.
The wind freezes our faces, cuts though our conversation. I’m not saying we stopped talking, I’m saying it got harder. My lips went to the dentist, I Novocain-lisp. Karen can't control her cheeks: I’ve developed a foreign accent!
We power-walk home, clocking Olympic speeds.
"There’s our super model shadows," Karen says.
Heads down into the wind we simultaneously spot a milky white rock glowing in the late light – one rock broken into two. We coax our cold stiff fingers to pick up the pieces, to fit them together. An exact fit. We lift them apart. Let’s do it again! Back together. Apart. Together. A best friend rock.
Back in the schoolhouse, Jerome witnesses our unthawing. We show him the rock: together, apart, together, apart. We show him our sausage red fingers. Is your face pins and needles? Yes! Phew. We numb-bumble around the kitchen groping for food. Karen pulls a drawer open smack into my leg. We laugh our cheeks to pieces. The thaw hits our thighs in burning waves. I need to take my pants off right now, I say. I’ll avert my eyes, Jerome says. I need a bathtub! Tea! To never go outside again! Plates piled high with leftover Thanksgiving leftovers we made our exit. Jerome held the door. You’ve been a great audience, we tell him. Thanks, he says. We’re here all week.
. . . . .
Labels: Ucross
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