No way could I stay there in the little house on Harvard Street, nor was there any plan to do so. Dubuque was hers as long as that would last, and I had business in New Mexico. I loved her more for seeing how she’d made a space to live her life, I realized: she didn’t know it, but the air around her crackled with excitement, and everywhere she went she made a difference. It had always been that way with her. There were hardly any birds on Harvard Street before she came, and the flowers that she planted seemed to grow up brighter and smell stronger than the rest.
Adding to the instability of my tottering preconceptions was the fact that Dubuque was almost wonderful. The city is the oldest one in Iowa and has character to spare, at least in the neighborhoods on the bluffs and down beside the river. My wife had found a little house within walking distance of downtown and several colleges. The streets were narrow, curved, and steep, the houses clustered close together. Here and there the trees opened up and one could see for miles. With all the little shops and restaurants within walking distance, it felt a little bit like Europe, which set me back a bit.
Standing on the deck of the “Discovery” felt inexplicably sublime. I still had 350 miles to go that day but wanted to stop time in its tracks and stay, having no idea why. “Where ya from?” he asked, walking closer. “The expedition camped here on this very spot, you know, on August 9, 1804.” I literally reeled, blinded by the light, and couldn’t speak. 200 years ago, on my birthday …
It was time for a road trip. For the last couple of years, I really hadn’t gone anywhere. My honey was in Dubuque, our separate quests lasting over a year now, and I desperately wanted to see her again. The little house on Harvard Street was a mystery to me, as were the sidewalks and the streets she put her feet on every day. I had to see. I had to go. I had to get away.
The last few hundred yards were for the record books or someone’s chronicle of the damned. The truck was either spinning its wheels in greasy, rocky mud or inching over narrow hummocks next to holes that would have left me stranded in an instant if one caught a wheel. I had to make it, too. This was it, last choice, nowhere to turn around and no salvation if I did.
Alone and freezing at 8,000 feet in the Chuska Mountains of the Navajo Nation, I wondered if I’d live to see the dawn. I was happier yet more frightened than I’d ever been. High on freedom and letting go, I’d allowed myself to be led, one step at a time, to an isolated spot where no one else might come for weeks. It was getting dark and much too cold, and no one knew where I was. As I shivered and contemplated the very real possibility of dying from exposure, snow began to fall.
I lit the fuse, waited for ignition, and let go: incredibly, beautifully, my custom-built flying wing hissed off and up into the sky! It climbed perfectly in a straight line, turned gently in the breeze, and circled even higher. I couldn’t believe how well it flew.
“That 14-foot eyebrow is still there,” the first one said, shaking his head in awe. It took a moment for me to realize they were talking about snow formations, places where the wind had formed drifts into recognizable features. I could tell from their stories that they each skied alone in the wild empty places, enjoying the solitude only locals can know. They traded details about snowscapes and how to navigate them as intently as golfers talk greens — the difference was, it hit me when I turned away, was that these two loved something that could get them killed dead.
…I was in the presence of something ferociously powerful and pagan. Every archetype was lit up like a thousand suns. This was the Secret, the secret of the world. The energy literally brought me to my knees, and I wanted never to leave. The purity, the spirit, the overwhelming truth was almost more than I could bear without doing something, so I sat there for the longest time and tried to pray. The words are lost to us (and so are we), but so help me, I tried, I really tried…
… A little farther on I came upon a startling sight. Scattered among the trees were what could best be described as pieces of the exploded skeleton of a steer. I’ve encountered such scenes before, but this was different. These whitened bones showed no sign that anyone but me had ever found them. Scavengers had dragged the carcass here and there, as evidenced by the trail of ribs and vertebrae, resulting in a plainly natural arrangement. In my mind’s eye, I could see coyotes pulling at the hide or tugging on a leg….
… I had never seen the like and sat there dumbfounded as the deer began to swim across, heading for a wooded bluff I doubted they would ever reach. All I could see were three brown heads bobbing perilously above the water, moving much too slowly, as far as I could tell. The dogs stood panting in the shallows with their tongues hanging out for hardly any time at all, then wheeled and ran off in pursuit of other game. It was all but over in an instant, or so it seemed, and quiet, like I’d dreamed the whole thing up, except for three little brown heads with floppy ears, far out in the middle of the river…
… The terrain was forested in piñon and juniper, very rocky, extremely dry, and sometimes nearly vertical. On steep slopes my boots slid sideways in the loose soil. There were no trails, no footprints except those of animals. No fences, of course. Just miles and miles of sloping mountainsides cut through with deep arroyos, some with sides too precipitous to cross. There was no trash. I saw lots of elk poop once I’d climbed highter up, where the stiff wind from the west felt positively cold in the blazing sunshine…
