lapsus linguae

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.
. . . . .

Wind whipped snow at the window all through dinner. Then it stilled. Then it got really cold. We walked out across pitch-black pasture, waving our puny flashlight at invisible black cow. Miraculously, no one tripped to death on frozen dung. We made a bonfire. Fire is so photogenic, we all agreed. No one knew where to look. Down at the near heat, or up at the far fire stars.

Karen’s reading Dante’s Inferno & offers this addendum:

Not yet had Nessus reached the other side
when we were on our way into a forest
that was not marked by any path at all.

No green leaves, but rather black in colour,
no smooth branches, but twisted and entangled,
no fruit, but thorns of poison bloomed instead.

No thick, rough scrubby home like this exists –
not even between Cecina and Corneto –
for those wild beasts that hate the run of farmlands.

Dante, Inferno CANTO XIII
. . . .

Yesterday afternoon Karen and I set out on a pre-emptive power walk – we figured we’d burn off Thanksgiving dinner before we ate it. And also, we had some nature-present-shopping to do. Alex is leaving us; the Girl’s Dorm will never be the same. We set out in search of a small beige good luck gift for her.

Karen picked up one rock, and I said: That’s conglomerate stone; small stones fused together by sedimentary pressure. How uncomfortable! she said, and tossed it aside. She picked another rock. I said: No, that one’s too plain. But then felt badly, because who died and made me the expert on small beige lucky things? So I said: I mean, it’s all right. She said: We could have had this conversation on a playground twenty years ago… That rock’s stupid. Is not! Is too. I’m telling…

I got so out of breath walking up one hill that I had to ask: Is this hill steep? Yeah, it’s steep. We leaned into a ferocious wind, leaving a string of unsuitable unlucky stones in our wake, stopping every now and then to take photographs of the insane things the sky was doing: low rain erased the Big Horns, high slabs of granite grey let stray god rays through, bruise black-blue blanketed Powder Basin and all the rest was bright sun.

We could see the cold and rain heading our way; we turned down slope toward home. Fifty feet below the ridgeline we spotted a string of long thin parallel lines of stone running out like musical notation – a treble clef – perpendicular to the trail. It took a moment to recognize this as a mostly buried petrified tree, its top most layer barely above ground.

Here’s what we found for Alex: A Small Square of Petrified Wood with One Thin Line of Quartz Crystal Inclusions. A piece of a tree turned to stone and trimmed with rhinestone symbolizes long life and good fortune, we decided. Certain small beige things are lucky; you just know when you see them.

Here’s a photograph Alex took of eerie trees near Piney Creek:

Happy trails Alex. People actually say happy trails in Wyoming.

“All those verbs: to leave, to travel, to depart, to flee. Snow has refused to let Paul drive; it’s her car after all, and aged Rabbit with the ‘t’ cracked off in back. She calls it The Rabbi and steers it over the secondary highways of the Midwest, the Rockies, the far West, pretty much only alert to one thing, the imperative of movement. She keeps her mind on the going and the radio, and plans strategies for the ingestion of coffee. Stopping seems like a very bad idea.” Stacey Richter, “Goodnight” in My Date with Satan, NY: Scribner, 1999, page 186.
. . . . .

Most Americans don’t seem to like the idea that Canada has Thanksgiving early. Actually, they don’t seem to like it that we have Thanksgiving at all. I gather the American Thanksgiving commemorates a specific historical dinner in which the Indians saved the Pilgrims from starving to death. I’m hazy on the details, but it seems to me that this mythical dinner happened long before America existed. Canada’s First Nations likewise saved countless colonists from scurvy and starvation. Had they been less forth coming with their culinary acumen things might have turned out differently for all parties.

All I know is, avoid air travel on Thanksgiving long weekend. Everybody’s going home to see their families and nobody’s happy about it. Somebody asked me the other night if Canadian Thanksgiving was about the Indians, or was it just a harvest festival. I said: We eat a lot and then a horrific family drama ensues. She said: Oh, so then it’s the same as here.

Holiday meals exacerbate family tensions. Everybody wants something – cranberry sauce, tofurkey. And everybody doesn’t want something – dark meat, prayer. Half the table is busily engaged in warding off conflict with gaiety. A futile endeavour as the other half was pissed off before it even sat down. Someone says the wrong thing. Someone else explains something badly. Someone else wasn’t listening. Someone else lashes out. Someone else takes it personally. One new hurt sets an old hurt hurting until, right around the table, all the hurts are going off like car alarms in a thunderstorm.

I know it’s very wrong of me, but I’m thankful this region is in a drought. Thunderstorms during thanksgiving dinner seem unlikely. I hope there aren’t any incidents of tofurkey or prayer either. Surely sighting a herd of wild turkeys the day before Thanksgiving is a good omen…

Karen and I were checking our email in her studio this morning when a herd of wild turkeys waltzed past, inches from the full-length window in her deck door. We’d never seen them this close up before. They’re fantastically ugly. Do you think any of these are girl turkeys? I’d hate to think that they are. But maybe that’s just species bias. Maybe these are super model turkeys and we just can’t tell.

The turkeys don’t seem to see us staring at them through the glass, or hear us talking about them. Next time I’m tempted to call someone a turkey I’ll know what an insult it is.

I grabbed my camera and followed the turkeys around the yard for a while, stealthily, with slippers on. Nora emerged from Buck’s Cabin with her camera (she had proper shoes on). They don’t see to have any idea what day it is, Nora said. The cook came out and threw them some pieces of apple. Trying to fatten them up? The cook says if you gobble at the turkeys they’ll gobble back. Isn’t it weird that people gobble up animals that make gobbling sounds?

I found a turkey feather for Karen’s collections of small beige things. Nora said: I’m going to tell her you wrestled that turkey to the ground! When I gave the feather to Karen I said: I wrestled that turkey to the ground! She believed me for .08 seconds. Then Nora came over and told Karen: JR wrestled that turkey to the ground. Now we know what happens when three fiction writers cross paths with a herd of wild turkeys.
. . . . .

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.
. . . . .

Ucross administrative assistant Kate Johnston used to work as a wrangler. Friday morning she rounded a heard of us up and drove us into town. Between the five of us we needed: a flight to Denver, a tube of blue paint, a pair of cuticle clippers, five rolls of colour film, six rolls of slide film, one pair of sunglasses, one pair of snow boots, an unknown quantity of postcards, a padded envelope, a book on Wyoming, a bag of corn chips, a bottle of whisky and ten bottles of wine.

I ran into Alison at the Cigar Store. I ran into Michael at the Drug Store. Nora ran into me in the back of a Western Wear store where I furtively caressed a two hundred and fifty dollar pair of pale green cowboy boots.

“They match your coat,” she said thoughtlessly.

“Thanks a lot!” I cried, aghast.

“Danger, danger!” I cried, fleeing the store.

Main Street Sheridan during the Sheridan Stampede of 1914.
It looks pretty much the same today.
. . . . .

First thing this morning I found Alex in the Depot kitchen making coffee with no socks on. “Not a good idea,” she said, the floor a mess of box elder carcasses. “Are you going over to the other side soon?” I asked, hoping for a lift to Big Red. Alex thought I was asking if she was dying.

“I’m thinking of going into Clearmont,” she said. Not quite heaven, but ten miles down the road, population one-fifteen and we’ve heard rumours there’s a liquor store there.

Ten minutes later, I’m on my way out the front door and Alex’s on her way in to get me. Boom. Comedic confusions and almost collisions – that’s how our day began.

Off-road trekking across the snow-melting lawn, we saw two rabbits chased each other around and around Alex’s car. “Ever since I got here,” she said. “Rabbits flock to my Subaru like it’s the mother ship and they’re waiting to be beamed up.”

The snow-covered hills east of Ucross rolled out pale blue-beige in a repeating pattern: same, different, familiar, new, same.

There’s no liquor store in Clearmont, only the Red Dawg Bar. To get the Red Dawg and the water tower into the same photo I had to step out into US 14 a bit. “Alert me of any oncoming traffic.” A freight train rolled through smelling of coal.

Alex took a picture of the Claremont Historical Jail sign.

“Shouldn’t that read Historic?”

A stiff-legged woman with lots of earrings and no teeth came out of the Red Dawg to find out who we were and what we were doing taking pictures. “Such a great sign,” Alex said. “With the water tower behind it,” I added unhelpfully. The woman’s caved in face made her look extra sceptical. “Where’s the Historical Jail,” Alex asked. Brilliant move! Distract her with tourism.

Take a right on New York Avenue. The Historical Jail is under the water tower. To get out of town, take another right at the elementary school Drug Free Zone sign.

Back on US 14 Alex said she found people in Wyoming to be a suspicious lot. I’d only met friendly folks up until the toothless woman. I guess if I were an inhabitant of a town of a hundred and fifteen people and/or a Red Dawg regular I’d want to know why two never-before-seen women were taking pictures of my bar.

A few miles out of Clearmont a huge metal cross atop a small hill reminded Alex of Brazil and me of Montréal. I wondered if it was a memorial for a fatal car crash near there. A few minutes later, Alex said: “My car has lost power,” calm as anything, and steered us over to the shoulder. What happened? No idea. The owner’s manual was no help. We didn’t know what to look up. Ignition? How about Stopped? Well, at least the view is nice. Maybe we should get out of the car, take some photos. What an absurd day.

We stood on the side of the road and ogled the Big Horns and the mule deer and waved at passing pickups. They all waved back, but otherwise gave us a wide berth.

“Maybe we should pop the hood, that always works.” And a good thing we did too.

“A rabbit sabotaged my car!” Alex cried. The bright copper ends of chewed through wire glinted in the noonday sun.

“Now lets not be too hasty to lay blame. We don’t know the rabbits did it.”

“There’s rabbit hair.”

“Hmm… I guess that would be rabbit poop then.”

Alex rolled a cigarette and flipped through her owner’s manual some more. I attempted to twist the wire-ends back together but there wasn’t enough exposed copper to work with and, anyway, I didn’t really think it would work.

Alex stuck her head under the hood again but pulled it out in a hurry: “It’s still in there!”

“What?”

“The rabbit, it’s still in my car!”

“No way.” I did not believe her. “I don’t see any rabbit.”

“I saw its fur. Look straight down.”

Then I saw it!

“You should have seen the look on your face,” Alex was laughing so hard.

“I just saw that look on your face!”

“This is so awful!” she said, but we couldn’t stop laughing.

“Do you think it’s gone over to the other side?”

The mule deer glared at us, like: You two are so hopeless. Will you please keep it down.

We knew where we were, and that we were less than ten miles from where we wanted to be. There was a rabbit in Alex’s car, dead or otherwise. The car had Massachusetts plates. And brand spanking new pickup trucks passed us at speeds exceeding the sound barrier. We didn’t have a cell phone – not that it’d work in Wyoming’s hills and holes. We set in to discussing the options. Well. We could walk it. Or one of us could. How long would it take? I don’t mind doing it, just depends if you want to leave your car or not. What happens when you leave your car on the side of the road in Wyoming?

“Maybe we should push it further off the road.”

“Toward that post?”

More gales of laughter, more glares from the deer.

Right around when we were getting ready to set out on foot, an ancient boxy two-tone pick up rounded the bend, coming straight out of the Pleistocene and headed our way. It slowed. It stopped for us! Yeah!

Norma Mally is our new favourite person in all of Wyoming. We said, “We’re so glad you stopped for us. No one else would.” She said, “I’m local. They’re all up here working the methane.” Norma used to dry ranch eight miles east of somewhere out by Recluse. “I’m too old now,” she said. “Now we run cattle.” She had nothing good to say about rabbits. “The rabbits is bad out by us,” she said. “They got my neighbour,” she said, meaning they got her neighbour’s truck.

“I’m a peaceful person,” said Alex. “I’ve been swerving to miss them.”

“You’ll be going the other way now I bet.”

“Like a video game.”

Norma Mally drove us right up to the Big Red Ranch House. “Where are you from?” she asked. New York. Montréal. “I was stationed over in Washington five years in the Air Force,” she said. There go the suspicious theories. Wyoming rancher Norma Mally offering us up an east coast connection may have been even more generous than offering us a ride.

Alex’s version of the story told so far diverges from mine in a number of ways:

While I could hardly concentrate on a word the toothless woman was saying because a) her sunken face made her expression so hard to read and b) she wasn’t exactly toothless – she had the turned in gums and chalky yellow stumps of heavy and prolonged crystal-meth use, Alex didn’t notice because was understandably distracted by her abnormally enormous and erratically pieced ears.

Ironic considering when Norma Mally said those guys who didn’t stop to help us weren’t local, they were here working methane; Alex understood that they were all on crystal-meth. Some of them could well have been, but methane gas is one of the biggest industries in Wyoming and those were damn expensive pickup trucks passing us, so it’s more than likely those guys were out-of-state workers without an ounce of neighbourly feeling. The methane industry is notoriously shortsighted. The drilling pollutes and depletes the water table. There’s so much methane in our tap water we can’t drink it.

I’m sure there are other discrepancies besides. I think we got off lucky considering our day began with confusion over whether “the other side” meant the other side of the pasture or life after death.

Alex spent the rest of the afternoon chasing after insurance, towing, garages and mechanics. For more about these details read her post, number 154, on this website: http://wombatnation.com/2005/01/mice-ate-my-car

At dinner that night she said, “So guess what, the rabbit was still in the car.” I was confused, having not yet heard about how, when Reed gave Alex a lift back out to her car, the rabbit appeared to be gone. Reed spliced the chewed wires together so Alex could to drive to the garage in Buffalo. Man I would’ve felt like a hero if I’d made that work. The mechanic found the rabbit again, very much alive, hiding in a different spot. It took four people to get it out.

It turns out the precise reason we lost power is, the rabbit chewed the wire to the alternator. I could make us both sound a lot smarter about cars by going back and inserting that detail mid-story, but I’m not going to. Not just yet.

“Out on the lawn the rabbits were perfectly still. Then they sprang up in the air, turning and dropping and landing and then freezing again. Catherine stood at the window of the bathroom, towelling her hair. She turned the bathroom light off, so that she could see them better. The moonlight picked out their shining eyes, their moon-coloured fur, each hair tipped in paint. They were playing some rabbit game like leapfrog. Or they were dancing the quadrille. Fighting a rabbit way. Did rabbits fight wars? Catherine didn’t know. They ran at each other and then turned and darted back, jumping and crouching and rising up on their back legs. A pair of rabbits took off in tandem, like racehorses, sailing through the air.”

Kelly Link, “Stone Animals,” in The Best American Short Stories 2005, ed. Michael Chabon, Boston, NY: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2005, pages 96-97.
. . . . .

Photographer and Ucross residency coordinator Deborah Ford confirmed all the wild geological theories I came up with on Sunday at dinner tonight. Yes, those were volcanic rocks. Yes, those were petrified trees! I had a pretty clear idea of how the trees got petrified, but where did those lava boulders come from?

Well. It turns out that one of the largest super volcanoes in the world is sitting about 200 miles from here underneath Yellowstone National Park. A massive eruption there 2.1 million years ago left a gigantic caldera larger than the state of Rhode Island and hundreds of meters deep. Ground-hugging flows of hot volcanic ash, pumice, and gases swept across an area of more than 3,000 square miles and volume of about 1,000 cubic kilometres, enough material to cover Wyoming with a layer 13 feet thick. The eruption also shot a column of volcanic ash and gases high into Earth’s stratosphere. This volcanic cloud circled the globe many times and affected Earth’s climate by reducing the intensity of solar radiation reaching the lower atmosphere and surface. The fine volcanic ash that fell downwind from the eruption site blanketed much of North America and is still preserved in deposits as far away as Iowa, where it is a few inches thick, and the Gulf of Mexico, where it is recognizable in drill cores from the sea floor.

Subsequent smaller lava flows have since buried and obscured most of the caldera, but the underlying processes responsible for Yellowstone’s tremendous volcanic eruptions are still at work. Volcanologists tracking the movement of magma under the park have calculated that in parts of Yellowstone the ground has risen over seventy centimetres the past century. The Yellowstone super volcano has been on a regular eruption cycle of 600,000 years. The last eruption was 640,000 years ago. The next is overdue. But I leave Wyoming December 8, so I’ll probably miss it. In Montréal all we’ll still see is fallout, toxic gas and ash.

. . . . .

If, when you wake up in Wyoming, it’s overcast out one window, look out another.

By mid-day Sunday blue sky had eclipsed grey. The intrepid Karen Russell and I made, and kept, a pact to work till 2PM. Then we donned hunting orange and headed for the hills.

When in Wyoming, wave at passing cars. Most cars that pass are trucks. One finger lifted off the steering wheel counts as a wave back. On the graded gravel route 195 to Sheridan a pickup truck slowed. Creepy anywhere else, but this driver was altruistic: I assume you’re walking cause you want to? We were. But if we had been broken down somewhere he would have been our saviour.

We walked along inventing fictional colour-names for things, with Flannery O’Connor’s rat-coloured car as our model, though, as Karen noted, makeup colour-names would also be a great source of inspiration. The road a rawhide strap, the cows so black they look hollow. We also thought up potentially ominous first sentences, after which anything could happen: Is that a deer in the road ahead? They turned off onto a smaller road. Their feet sank into the muck.

We turned off onto truck path that trailed up into the sway-backed hills. For a while I couldn’t remember this word, but it’s the bentonite in Wyoming’s black soil that makes it swell, when wet, into what the locals call gumbo, a muck so slippery that roughnecks use it to lubricate mining drill bits.

Gumbo glomming onto our sneakers we passed through a prairie dog kingdom, an eerie plain pockmarked by pyramidal mounds of dug up earth. “Inland gator holes,” said alligator savvy Miami native Karen Russell. An oddly perspicacious remark as, through its Palaeozoic and most of its Mesozoic history, Wyoming lay on the east coast of a broad sea. During most of Eocene time, palms, fig trees, cypress and magnolias grew in abundance and primitive mammals flourished in the tropical climate. Long before deer and antelope, flamingos and crocodiles once roamed this range.

For two weeks I’ve been dragging the serrated edges of these far distant hills into focus through a telephoto lens. Up close the high world forces a wide angle, too much view for one viewfinder, and a polarizing filter helps rein in the massive blue. The sun slanting one way and the hill slopping another, our shadows spilled out ahead of us so long that I lay down on the ground to keep mine out of more than one east-facing picture.

Up a last burst of steep slope, the grasses, every colour but green, ended at a stack of wind-raw red rock. We felt alone on the planet, and glad to have each other as witnesses: to how high up we were, to how far away everything was, to the wind, sun, sky, lichens, fossils and small animal bones. After a while Karen pointed out that I was swearing at Mother Nature: This is crazy. This is ridiculous. Can you believe this? It’s disgusting. It’s frightening. I assured her that these curses are all praises in French.

Happily, neither Karen nor I suffer from the disease of needing to be right. Theories abounded. Are those bones from a bird? The Indians must have been so cold. Maybe these are fossils. Magnolia leaves, perhaps? Look, there’re more over there. There’s so much shit up here! Is this deer shit or cow shit? It’s pretty big. I guess we shouldn’t be stepping on these gazillion year old lichens. They remind me of the Great Barrier Reef. I swear to god that log shaped rock is a petrified tree. No way. Well it looks like a tree, concentric rings and everything. Wait, yeah, this could totally be a tree. Did you hear a shotgun? Uh-oh.

On the way down we passed four semi-massive deeply black and bubble-pocked stones. They stood alone in the sparse grass looking quite unlike anything around them, in a weird Easter Island Head way. I don’t know how it’s possible but I’m pretty sure they’re volcanic. We stood in silence, our noses running in the wind. We stroked those glossy smooth surfaces and allowed ourselves to believe that once they were liquid molten lava.

Backtracking across the prairie dog kingdom we heard the racing high chatter of the guard dog barking out an intruder alert. “That’s our names over and over again in Prairie Dog,” Karen said. “I don’t know, maybe they’re trying to come up with new words for colours,” I said. We didn’t get to see them up close but their paw-prints scampered through the bentonite rich truck path mud.

Just past the last house before the main road we stopped to watch a dozen mule deer graze behind a No Hunting sign. “Just act natural,” I said. They stood stock-still not twenty feet from us – their tall oval ears outlined in black – listening to us. We all stared at each other. The intimacy was so prolonged and unnerving that when one turned and then the rest instantly disappeared after it, it was almost a relief. Karen said, “I’ve never had so many animals stare at me in one day.”

Back at the ranch, the sun set over the lumbering black cattle we now think of as our own. An owl conversed with some far off lowing that sounded quite tragic, but we were so hungry! We ate in a hurry and scurried off to our rooms. I, for one, felt incapable of conversation. Who knows what to say about a day like that?

Well, Annie Proulx does:

“He felt as though he had stumbled into a landscape never before seen on the earth and at the same time that he had been transported to the ur-landscape before human beginnings. The mountains crouched at every horizon like dark sleeping animals, their backs whitened by snow. He trod on wildflowers, glistening quartz crystals, on agate and jade, brilliant lichens. The unfamiliar grasses vibrated with light, their incandescent stalks lighting the huge ground. His heart squeezed in, and he wished for a celestial eraser to remove the fences… Even the sinewy, braided currents of the wind… pleased him.” Annie Proulx, “Man Crawling Out of Trees”, Bad Dirt, NY: Scribner, 2004, page 106.
. . . . .