I imagine the trail, noting the pitch of the ascent, the uneven terrain. An invisible sparrow, I follow the one called Cruiser, trail named for his sure-footed, uncanny pace. He’s the tall, ball-capped hiker, sunburned, toenails flapping off raw nail beds, and blisters--pearls of exquisite pain--studding his heels, proof for any reasonable person that the human foot was not made for this grueling marathon, not adequately designed to stumble through desert and sweltering valley, only to plow snow-covered ridges at nose-bleed heights.
Only last month a missing hiker was found, the Ice Man Cometh, another wild adventurer dedicated to the trail, the freedom, the solitary pursuit of what few would consider, let alone willingly undertake, 2600+ miles of endurance and foolhardy will. The Ice Man’s heart, luck and/or sense of direction gave out on Fuller’s Ridge in a blinding June snowstorm, a treacherous pass under optimal conditions. He slept fitfully, I suspect, a full season’s nap beneath snow and ice, then reappeared, a grim reminder that the trail is rife with peril and unspeakable heartache.
Alaskan Jesus, he of the generous spirit, quit the trail with a strange affliction, the swelling of face and neck, lymph nodes the size of boulders. The mysteriously tagged Amoeba, rushed off Bear Mountain by ambulance, suffered high-altitude sickness, and poodle bushes, innocent-sounding thistles loaded with punishing pain, undid Cushy and his wild, mountain-man beard. The most poignant story belongs to Astro. Head filled with stars and constellations, he chose to camp cowboy style--blanket to the ground, eyes turned skyward. Like a mythic hero, he raced against the odds, the clock and the cancer devouring his bones.
Warnings of rodent-borne plague, quicksand, poisonous snakes, grizzly bears and cranky coyotes populate the landscape, yet Cruiser keeps cruising because one man’s defeat is another man’s triumph.
Bad things always happen to someone else.
I recall believing a similar fiction a thousand summers ago, sheltering a wide-eyed naiveté about life’s peculiar turns, still believing in special dispensations for good hearts and better intentions. Until, that is, the bad crept in, latched itself to my shoulders, an invisible shroud—parents lost to age and dementia, the near death of another child, a vibrant friend collapsing on her bathroom floor. Mishaps, bad turns and worse decisions, the inexorable ticking of the clock all catch the blissfully unaware regardless of location: inside the comfort of home or outside, embracing a wilderness quest.
I cannot protect Cruiser from this ultimate reality, this man-child created in a sweet, giddy moment of love, lust and wine. I want merely to delay the endnote—the last shuddering breath, the eye fixed and filming, the heart seizing like a clenched fist. Keep him safe, I whisper to the God and saints of my childhood, the same celestial tribe I willfully abandoned years ago. Keep him safe, I repeat until my personal journey is over, until I’m scattered to the winds like so much dandelion seed.
Is that so much for the Universe to consider? Is that too much for a mother to ask? I ask in the childhood way, my words brimming over. Only now, I see the rugged road clearly: that bruising, unrelenting trail.
Only last month a missing hiker was found, the Ice Man Cometh, another wild adventurer dedicated to the trail, the freedom, the solitary pursuit of what few would consider, let alone willingly undertake, 2600+ miles of endurance and foolhardy will. The Ice Man’s heart, luck and/or sense of direction gave out on Fuller’s Ridge in a blinding June snowstorm, a treacherous pass under optimal conditions. He slept fitfully, I suspect, a full season’s nap beneath snow and ice, then reappeared, a grim reminder that the trail is rife with peril and unspeakable heartache.
Alaskan Jesus, he of the generous spirit, quit the trail with a strange affliction, the swelling of face and neck, lymph nodes the size of boulders. The mysteriously tagged Amoeba, rushed off Bear Mountain by ambulance, suffered high-altitude sickness, and poodle bushes, innocent-sounding thistles loaded with punishing pain, undid Cushy and his wild, mountain-man beard. The most poignant story belongs to Astro. Head filled with stars and constellations, he chose to camp cowboy style--blanket to the ground, eyes turned skyward. Like a mythic hero, he raced against the odds, the clock and the cancer devouring his bones.
Warnings of rodent-borne plague, quicksand, poisonous snakes, grizzly bears and cranky coyotes populate the landscape, yet Cruiser keeps cruising because one man’s defeat is another man’s triumph.
Bad things always happen to someone else.
I recall believing a similar fiction a thousand summers ago, sheltering a wide-eyed naiveté about life’s peculiar turns, still believing in special dispensations for good hearts and better intentions. Until, that is, the bad crept in, latched itself to my shoulders, an invisible shroud—parents lost to age and dementia, the near death of another child, a vibrant friend collapsing on her bathroom floor. Mishaps, bad turns and worse decisions, the inexorable ticking of the clock all catch the blissfully unaware regardless of location: inside the comfort of home or outside, embracing a wilderness quest.
I cannot protect Cruiser from this ultimate reality, this man-child created in a sweet, giddy moment of love, lust and wine. I want merely to delay the endnote—the last shuddering breath, the eye fixed and filming, the heart seizing like a clenched fist. Keep him safe, I whisper to the God and saints of my childhood, the same celestial tribe I willfully abandoned years ago. Keep him safe, I repeat until my personal journey is over, until I’m scattered to the winds like so much dandelion seed.
Is that so much for the Universe to consider? Is that too much for a mother to ask? I ask in the childhood way, my words brimming over. Only now, I see the rugged road clearly: that bruising, unrelenting trail.
