Bachelor party, Keystone, and Crickets

It was sometime after midnight that Wilson, Hogan and I stood poolside in McKinney's backyard. Everyone else had gone to bed and we were heading that way soon, just wrapping up a piece of forgotten conversation.

For some time I had been tuned in to a conversation between crickets and cicadas and I couldn't leave the outcome unknown. I climbed into my sleeping bag at the side of the pool and watched the clouds swallow the stars as I eavesdropped on the crickets and drifted off to sleep to a symphony of insects.

I woke up at around 5 am soaking wet with rain coming down hard and only getting harder. My clothes layed out neatly by the pool were in a puddle of water and my sleeping bag was soaked through. I retreated to the comfort of home.

Breakfast was at Waffle House with Regan and Wilson. First visit to a Waffle House since January of 2009 when I seized on a Houston sidewalk 30 minutes later. Apparently Waffle House is not directly related to epilepsy, only deliciousness.

The bachelor party started that day at noon and finished at 11 when most of the participants were passed out or off to the bars. We spent the day lounging by the pool drinking copious amounts of Keystone Light, Coors, and sipping whisky.  By the end, Tex was racked out on his couch, a frozen pizza slowly charring into a blackened husk to be found in the morning while Regan and I awaited Pizza Hut to deliver our salvation contained in a greasy, doughy pie containing the secret to late night sobriety, and some chicken wings. Over lots of water and pizza and wings, we waxed philosophically, defining the night with good conversation and somehow went to bed sober.

Regardless of who remembers how much or how little it was a successful reunion of old friends brought together by a future union of two people meant to be together. We sent McKinney off in proper fashion with the drunken toasts of well meaning and unintelligable friends, stories of long ago, and in anticipation of stories to come.

Ink Stamped On Paper

I am in love with the written word, the way it can make the heart flutter, cause the stomach to drop, or the soul to soar through clouds above mountain tops only to dive down and mingle with the dry sands of the desert, how a sentence can slake the thirst with but a few words in regards to clear rocky streams.

I am in love with ink stamped on paper, the musty smell, the crisp shuffle of pages flipping through fingertips, the comfort of books on shelves waiting to be discovered, beckoning forth the curious eyes of man and woman.  

I am in love with words stamped on paper.

A Fisherman's Advice

"I wish I had figured it out when I was your age instead of in my 60's," said Forest.  He was sitting on the tube of the 20 foot raft, pole in one hand, looking upstream to the clear running waters of the Chena River.  Rudy and I were standing on the gravel bar, while Kathy, Forest's wife, fished from the bank.  They're traveling through Alaska and today was their day to fish.  On their bucket list is a mission to catch fish in each and every state.  To succeed they each have to catch a freshwater fish.  We'd been hitting the Arctic Grayling and they each had caught upwards of 10 fish.  Nothing spectacular on the Chena but the water was a bit cloudy due to recent rains and they were happy as soon as they each had their first.  Alaska was the 36th state crossed off the list. 

Forest had already been raving about the day.  Fish, sun, and fellowship on the river.  The three things he was looking for in a day of fishing and Rudy and I had provided all three.  The water was swift, the fishing stress free, and the conversation flowed.  Early on Forest was having a difficult time bringing in the grayling due to his aggressive reeling once they were on the line.  Rudy was eventually able to instruct him to not "Bass" the grayling, referring to the speed and aggressiveness with which Bass are generally reeled in.  Grayling require a more delicate touch.  A fisherman will have best luck if one plays the Grayling in to the boat. 

There were clouds in the sky, keeping the heat of the day down to a mild 70 degrees, a slight breeze to keep the mosquitos at bay and between Rudy rigging the lines and myself handling the raft we drifted through a near perfect day on the upper Chena River. 

Stretching our legs on the bank, Forest turned the conversation to our work.  "You may not get rich but you've got it figured out.  Just keep doing what you're doing.  Wish I had figured it out when I was your age.  Just don't make the mistake I made.  Don't go corporate.  Keep doing what you're doing.  I thought I needed to work my way up, become the CEO of Sears.  What a mistake I made...."

We looked past each other, eyes wandering across gravel bar, spruce and birch forest, to settle on current, watching the slightly swollen river waters flow by searching the surface for the rise of a Grayling.  A Raven's call pierced the afternoon's stillness, the fishing had slowed in the heat of the day, and we were left with nothing but the company of each other, the Raven, and the cool, swiftness of flowing water. 

We climbed back into the raft, drifting through the remainder of a beautiful day on the river, content in having it all figured out. 

Spring Break Up at the Cabin

I sit, just inside the spruce along the cut banks of the Chena River immersed in the crisp, frozen silence of a forested winter landscape.  A silence that gives birth to a cacophony of sounds for the one who stops to listen and accept the opportunity to let the voices of man fade into the distance and allow oneself to be swept away.

The sun is beating down from above warming me and the frozen river as the forest slowly comes to life with the arrival of spring.  The river ice is now bare.  No longer covered in snow it shines bright with a slight greenish tint and pools of standing water.  There are slight undulations to its surface and it cries out with strain as the snow melt heaves against it from below.  The cracking and popping of the river is joined in chorus by the song of birds just arriving for spring, the chattering of squirrels, and the croak of the raven sitting on high.

Bubbling water bursts through cracks in the ice and cascades down stream as I lean back in my camp chair basking in the sun and listen to the excited babbling of the river as it comes to the end of it's winter song.  The sound of the water bubbling out of ice is as a person gulping water from an endlessly flowing tap, and I suppose in a way it is.  I suppose it is the world drinking gratefully the cold, clear stream of a river previously locked in ice for six months.  A river once more breaking free.

I Remember the Fire

I woke up hungover to a cold stove and a chilled cabin.  With a slight throbbing in my head, I put the kettle on for coffee, noticed the mercury reading 20 below outside, and knelt to build a fire in the stove. 

As the cabin warmed to the pleasant crackle and reassuring glow of fire, I sat in the rocker, coffee in hand and watched the sky lighten over spruce.

Years ago, I had a fantasy about driving across this grand expansive country of ours.  Breathing it in.  Skirting the cities and lingering in the towns.  Watching the sun rise over a different field, forest, or town every morning.

Exploring the back roads of America.  Browsing through it's downtown shops, eavesdropping on conversations over coffee and pie in it's diners, buying gas at it's corner service stations before moving on down the line.

But all this was merely the beginning of fantasy.

I always imagined finding myself in that perfect, sleepy little town, village really.  Full of hardworking, simple folks who relied on themselves and each other, taking little notice of the outside world.

A place that I could feel in my bones and in my blood that I was right to be in, a place where I belonged.  Fall in love with the young woman who ran the bookstore, buy a small house in town, and raise a family.  Do something simple and useful for a living. 

Have someone with whom to grow old and a community in which to belong.

Instead I have spent my life restless and lonely.

Wandering and searching, never quite finding the town, eluded by love, dominated by an urge for going.  Once or twice, I've begun to settle in to life, begun to believe that I've found the town or the woman only to discover that dreams don't come true.

I do my best to be happy with where I am, what I find myself doing but this is a great struggle for me, and I am rarely happy in the present, for I am pulled to continue on down the road.  It is an almost desperate need to find that which I am looking for without knowing what it is that will satisfy my search.

One night, years ago, some friends and I sat around a fire, warmed by it's strong, proud heat, and we fed it deep into the night.  As we were turning in we each took our turn pissing on the coals in a young man's effort to quench the flames.  We climbed into our tents and fell asleep to rain drops pattering softly.  The rain continued into the morning but at each lull the fire would flare up and we'd hear the crackling of flames and see the flickering glow through the tent wall.  As I climbed out of the tent the following day one determined, proud flame was still licking the air from a wet pile of ash and burned brands.  Refusing to face it's end. Refusing to face the finality of failure.

Answering Solitude's Call

It was midweek and I decided to take a break from woodcutting. It was warm at around 10 above. Up about 20 degrees since I’d arrived at the cabin and I figured it was time to blaze a trail to the hot springs. Since arriving at the cabin 4 or 5 days before I’d spent my days wandering around the property with a chainsaw and a maul bucking up down trees, splitting the big rounds, and making stacks of wood to dry in the forest. In the evenings I’d collapse into the wooden rocker with a cup of tea and a book. First War of the Worlds, then The Blue Nile, and Ashenden, or the British Agent (perhaps Maugham at his best)

I’d been day dreaming of blazing a trail to the hot springs for years now. Relatively simple procedure. Cross the river behind the cabin and head up the steep black spruce forested hill to the peak of Bear Paw Butte, from which you drop onto the Angel Rocks to Chena Hot Springs trail.  All told approximately 4 miles of walking and 1,500 feet of elevation gain to arrive at the springs.

I made myself a PB&J, packed a bottle of water, and off I went to promptly break through the ice of the Chena River. Approximately 15 feet off Greg’s property and I’ve already hit my first snag. The weather had warmed and as a result the river ice was a bit unpredictable…or perhaps I should say completely predictable and thus undependable. Once across the river I was maneuvering to climb the cut bank and the ice broke beneath my left foot. I managed to scramble up the bank and my gaitor kept me mostly dry.

The sky, overcast early, had mostly cleared to reveal a blue sky day with the sun blazing down upon the hills and ridges of the Upper Chena Valley. Given a choice, this day, there was no where I would rather have been. The snow was a deep powder and facing me was exactly what I had expected and I reveled in it. A grueling slog through knee deep snow putting behind me 1,500 feet of elevation gain in under two miles. The sweat poured, my chest heaved, and my legs screamed for an end.

Finally, once again, after too long a time I knew that I was happy.

Me, the snow, and the sky.

The Relief of Silence

Sippin on a Guinness at Shannachie's Pub in Willitz, Northern California.  The table next to me is occupied by a black cat with white socks and grey whiskers.  He's 18 and older than the pub.  Apparently the place is his and nobody is in the mood to challenge him.  I keep my distance.  He looks innocent enough but a cat that owns a bar is not a feline to disagree with. 

I'm considering heading home, which for tonight is the house we've been painting on School Street.  It has new carpet and fresh paint and is thus way more inviting than the house I started today that reeks of dog piss and has smoke stained walls. 

But then there's the girl sitting at the bar with the accent that I can't yet place.  It's European and familiar but is just barely eluding definition.  Her friend is willowy in a white floor length skirt, sweater, and scarf with eyes that are inordinately large for her face.  And for the life of me, I just want to place that accent. 

The jazz music flowing through the speakers begs a cool demeanor.  Two locals throw dice on the floor as a patron sits next to the owner and sets his beer down beside the cat's curled form.  I dream of forgiveness. 

The scruffy bartender with a wool cheese cutter works through the days crossword as the aging men at the bar banter over the evening's brews and I consider sanding and refinishing the bar's aged hardwood floor and decide such an action would require penance. 

I slowly rise to my feet, glance around the bar one last time, bidding the room a silent good bye and walk out into the evening rain.  Heading back to the house, I take my time, allowing the cool rain to slowly soak through cotton.  I'm chilled as I step through the front door and find relief in silence.  I curl up inside my sleeping bag and allow the ringing in my ears to lull me gently to sleep, engulfed finally by the stark absence of thought.