a three hill day
I committing long walk adultery this weekend. My wilderness adventure companion Karen Russell was away at the Miami Book Fair and I went out on a four and a half hour hike without her. At least I went alone.
I set out at noon, the scoria-surfaced road and a power line for company. Closer inspection of a topographical atlas over breakfast this morning revealed that the 195 is also known at the Coal Creek Road, though the Coal Creek is dry at the moment.
In four and a half hours I saw two vehicles. One I saw twice - heading out, and then heading back. The other one slowed up. A high-cheeked man in a flat brimmed hat and a handlebar moustache leaned over his shotgun and shell case to roll down the passenger-side window:
“Need a ride anywhere or are you alright.”
“No, I'm walking on purpose. Thanks.”
No one walks anywhere here. If you’re local, you stop and offer a lift. Not local? You drive 85 and don’t stop for anything.
A few miles in I turned off the Coal Creek Road onto an even smaller road that headed straight up toward the ridgeline. Where that road veered left I veered right and struck out across grass and sagebrush. I spent the rest of my afternoon on three hills:
The Castle Hill: two turrets towering over a string of sage green hills, massive circular stacks built from square blocks of red rock covered with sea foam green lichen.
The Lava Hill: a pocket park of porous globs of amorphous volcanic debris – sulphur yellow, oil-slick purple and black as Agnes cows in parts – burrowed under by rabbits and the only sound: the repeated report-pop of far off gunshot.
The Boulder Hill: a steep jumble of gigantic sandstone boulders the size of camping trailers the colour of a day at the beach, because they used to be beach, sand; suction cup shaped holes hold the shape of long gone abalone shells, petrified tree trunks protruding from the ashy slope, treacherously steep and soft slippery to climb but I did.
When I finally crested the ridgeline, guess what was on the other side. More of the same. A herd of pronghorn ran like white water rapids across the plain far, far below.
I walked home in the low sun shadow. On the still sun side, a bald eagle circled intently; whatever prey it had its eye on didn’t stand a chance. I was tired enough to get in the pickup truck of the next handsome hunter to offer me a lift. I was hungry enough to eat my arm. Back at the ranch, I shovelled down a plate of leftovers at 5PM, conked out on the sofa in my studio, crawled upstairs to bed at 9 and slept for almost 12 hours.
The telling of this walk comes across dryer than others without Karen there to generate dialogue. I talked to myself plenty, but that’s between me and the wind.
“It seems like we have a full and rich life here, but not all our stories translate well on the phone.” Karen Russell, the day after the alternator bunny incident.
. . . . .
I set out at noon, the scoria-surfaced road and a power line for company. Closer inspection of a topographical atlas over breakfast this morning revealed that the 195 is also known at the Coal Creek Road, though the Coal Creek is dry at the moment.
In four and a half hours I saw two vehicles. One I saw twice - heading out, and then heading back. The other one slowed up. A high-cheeked man in a flat brimmed hat and a handlebar moustache leaned over his shotgun and shell case to roll down the passenger-side window:
“Need a ride anywhere or are you alright.”
“No, I'm walking on purpose. Thanks.”
No one walks anywhere here. If you’re local, you stop and offer a lift. Not local? You drive 85 and don’t stop for anything.
A few miles in I turned off the Coal Creek Road onto an even smaller road that headed straight up toward the ridgeline. Where that road veered left I veered right and struck out across grass and sagebrush. I spent the rest of my afternoon on three hills:
The Castle Hill: two turrets towering over a string of sage green hills, massive circular stacks built from square blocks of red rock covered with sea foam green lichen.
The Lava Hill: a pocket park of porous globs of amorphous volcanic debris – sulphur yellow, oil-slick purple and black as Agnes cows in parts – burrowed under by rabbits and the only sound: the repeated report-pop of far off gunshot.
The Boulder Hill: a steep jumble of gigantic sandstone boulders the size of camping trailers the colour of a day at the beach, because they used to be beach, sand; suction cup shaped holes hold the shape of long gone abalone shells, petrified tree trunks protruding from the ashy slope, treacherously steep and soft slippery to climb but I did.
When I finally crested the ridgeline, guess what was on the other side. More of the same. A herd of pronghorn ran like white water rapids across the plain far, far below.
I walked home in the low sun shadow. On the still sun side, a bald eagle circled intently; whatever prey it had its eye on didn’t stand a chance. I was tired enough to get in the pickup truck of the next handsome hunter to offer me a lift. I was hungry enough to eat my arm. Back at the ranch, I shovelled down a plate of leftovers at 5PM, conked out on the sofa in my studio, crawled upstairs to bed at 9 and slept for almost 12 hours.
The telling of this walk comes across dryer than others without Karen there to generate dialogue. I talked to myself plenty, but that’s between me and the wind.
“It seems like we have a full and rich life here, but not all our stories translate well on the phone.” Karen Russell, the day after the alternator bunny incident.
. . . . .
Labels: Ucross
posted by J. R. Carpenter at
10:39 PM
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