My internet hasn't been working for awhile, which is why I haven't updated this as much as I want to. I write about my experiences in Word and then wait for a good internet day to email it to myself so I can run to the coffee house and post it online. I have pictures, and I can't wait to show them but that'll be awhile.
I.
Robert and I pack. I laugh at him when he packs his sewing kit. You never know, he tells me, with creased forehead. He places his Stetson sideways on his head, and binds his bags together onto his back. I tell him his back will hurt, and he disagrees. I’ve carried stuff before, he says importantly.
II.
The first mile on the Hellroaring Trail and a gray fox stands with pointed tail, looking at me as if I am about as interesting as a tree; as if he owns this forest, and I am nothing to him. He sniffs a prairie dog hole, puts a dainty fist out, and begins to dig. He sniffs some more. He has walked leisurely within touching distance of me. My camera is at the bottom of my bag, so I just grin at him like a big galoof.
III.
Robert’s back begins to ache and he concedes my baggage point. Next time, he says, I won’t bring the kitchen sink.
IV.
There is a plunking noise as we walk the trail, and I startle, back away. It’s a woodpecker. I see his tail wagging with each pound of beak against bark. I’m happy it’s not a bear.
V.
It is 4.2 miles to 2H8, these numbers are important. We count them, measure them on the map, circle in seconds the river with our swift fingers. Our backs and legs toddle after our fingers and minds, our lungs breathe hard, we sweat. We pause and use iodine with river water and a hot pink nalgene. I drink deep— my stomach gurgles and cramps. Walking and water doesn’t mix in large portions.
VI.
There are sunflowers everywhere and forget-me-nots hidden in the eddies of meadow soil. I remember bringing forget-me-nots to my dead grandmother and I think to myself that my grandmother’s blue eyes are sprouting from the ground, that she is watching me. I bend and touch the green leaves tenderly, swaying from weight of the pack and melancholy.
VII.
There are blood bones, stripped of skin, knobby on the jointed ends, just seconds from our camp site. I turn my head. I hate this part of nature. I prefer the pretty things. Robert digs in my bag and takes a picture of the skeleton. I look again, not able to close my eyes forever, drawn to the blood bones which sink to bleach and rock before me.
VIII.
Coyote Creek is glacier cold and fast like a buffalo on charge. I pour nalgenes of Coyote Creek over my head and scream so loudly from the cold I wake Robert who comes running. I stand barefooted in the dirt and rock with river in my hair, laughing my heart out. I scrub myself raw, then wrap myself into a sleeping bag, shivering.
IX.
In the morning I walk outdoors, still in my flower pajamas, and run right into two deer eating breakfast underneath my suspended backpack. I walk the stretch of the quiet meadow, enjoying the peace before I break camp and head back to civilization. I eat cranberries and listen to the birds. I wait for the sunrise.
