GRACK! Amazing Web Columns That Started It All

The wind blew strongly from the south and shook the branches, but the tiny carcass was firmly lodged. Back and forth it waved, like something in a dream you half-remember and try not to forget. It must have fallen from the sky, dropped by a raven or a hawk, or been accidentally lost by dueling magpies, I reasoned.

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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.

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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.

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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 …

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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