Martha kept her eyes closed, listening to the flutter of the tiny birds perching on the edge of the flatbed trailer. She had moved the old chaise up onto the trailer after spotting the brown fuzzy tarantula making her way up the driveway, each long furry arm reaching out and finding a place on the round rocks and hoisting forward to the next. Not wanting to have this little creature as a bed mate, she decided to bask from a higher level. The mornings were chilly, twenty degrees the thermometer on the porch claimed, yet even with frost covering the trailer and the hood of her car, she brought her coffee out, walking down the driveway to watch the brilliant sunrise. By afternoon it was warm enough to nap out here in the sun, although she kept her sweatshirt on and propped a hat over her face to avoid sunburn.
"Are you the same bird I saw standing on the back of that horse?" Talking to animals, the trees, the car, the sky, this appeared to be one side effect of this time alone. She had discovered a natural pattern, three days alone was productive, but the fourth day her legs were restless, her mind wouldn't focus on whatever she had decided to read that day, and her writing was
such that she would have to be heavy on the delete button the next day. She had explored Durango, Taos, Bandelier, driving miles and miles, leaving for hours and hours. She seemed to be poor at planning for these adventures, forgetting to bring a coat, water, her camera, but in the long run it really didn't matter. These details, which would have haunted her in the past, were now easily dismissed, only a fleeting thought as her car flew over the winding roads, past the towering peaks, grazing cattle, winding rivers.
"Whatever." She had taken to saying these words aloud to herself, a smug smile crossing her lips when she spoke. This was good practice.
This morning when she awoke, stretching, rising, peeing, brewing her morning coffee, something had changed. She had driven to Taos and Ojo Caliente yesterday, never really stopping to walk around, just looking, looking, looking. Today she should be settled, ready to work, read, meditate, relax. She wasn't settled. She ruffled through papers, straightened stacks, sorted a few of her photographs on her laptop, walked around outside, washed her few dishes.
"I think it's time for me to go home." She tried these words on for size. She had paid for the casita through Thursday, but a storm was coming this week. If she left now she could take more time on her drive home. Stop in Santa Fe at a museum, shop for fabric in Albuquerque. Yes, the words felt right. Today she would pack, visit her cousins to say good-bye, take one final look around.
She didn't drive leisurely and she didn't take her time. She got up at four am, struggling to fasten the straps of the luggage bag on the icy roof of the car, digging out her fingerless gloves in hopes that her fingers would start working again. Impatient already, things taking too long, wanting to get on with this. She drove out in the dark, whispering goodbye to everything, her river, the cattle, the gate, the coffee house. She pulled off the road for a view of the bluffs where her father's ashes had been scattered, hoping for some cosmic event or emotion, but there was nothing. The bluffs stood as they always had, no bird flying above them, no sunlight highlighting the special spot where the rocks had been piled in a primitive altar, no strong emotions invading her heart.
And so she drove. And drove. She buzzed through Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Grants, Gallup, pulling over for some food, water, brief naps. In Flagstaff the rain started. The scattered white clouds lit up from the late afternoon sun dropping in the west. When they opened to let out the rain each drop was lit, producing a phosphorescent rain, like driving through some curtain to another world. The sunset was brilliant, the rain stopped, the clouds now pink, the moon appearing just under them. She found she hadn't planned well, darkness creeping up and taking over the sky.
She was tired, her eyes burning, but there was only the long highway, no towns, no campgrounds, so she drove on. She drove over the new bridge at Hoover Dam, the one she had studied on pictures, hoping to cross. Black holes surrounded her on all sides, no view, no real sense of where she was. Remembering a campground at Lake Mead, she pulled in. The self pay required driving around and finding a numbered camp site, then returning to pay, filling in the boxes on the small yellow envelope. She stuffed ten dollars in the envelope, wrote her name in big letters across it and pushed it through the slot of the cast iron tube. If anyone asked her she would say she paid, but she was too tired to follow the directions. In the past the rules would have governed her, no matter the bowel cramps, the need for a toilet and some sleep, she would have filled in each box carefully. Sleeping in the car was now routine. She used her toes to push out of each shoe, nudging the smelly sneakers to one side with her foot, nearly asleep before her feet were under the edge of the long zippered side of the sleeping bag.
Awake early, unsure of the time because she was now in Nevada, not remembering if she had ever changed the clock in the car, daylight savings time in New Mexico and California, but not Arizona, she used the bathroom once more, brushing her teeth in the cold night air. It was still dark, three am or four am, time to drive again. Pulling on a sweatshirt and gloves she kept her lights off as she drove out through the campground, realizing she didn't really know what it looked like. Las Vegas stayed open all night, she was able to get some coffee with ease, no matter the time. She reached Death Valley as the sun came up, reflecting another type of geology. She thought back on the whole trip, the vast deserts, high mesas, red hoo doos, smooth lava flows, chunky sharp cliffs, white and grey layers. The earth here had a salty texture, mountains which looked soft, changing, like piles of sand, but upon closer inspection were solid hard rocks.
Martha had been to Death Valley before, once as a four year old, traveling with her indulgent Nanna and Grandpa. Her memory included placing her grandfather's favorite BBQ potato chips on the seat of the small canvas camp stool, peeking around the edge of the tent to watch the blue jays swoop down and grab them. She didn't really know if this had occurred in Death Valley, the trip had included Yosemite and other campgrounds, these memories a blur, still in her mind, but blended and changed with the passing of time. The second trip was two years ago, arriving in April when the thought had been it would be cool enough to hike around, only to find that it was hot even then. She had read about a hike, Mosaic Canyon, and when driving past the sign pointing off up a gravel road to the trail head she had been struck with a strong desire to make this hike. The trail had appeared to her in some of her dreams, calling to her, telling her there was something here for her.
Now, with the early morning arrival, the cool November day, no time line so to speak of, the hike was hers.
Driving up the gravel road to the base of the mountain was when Martha first discovered that there was a strange depth issue in this valley. What looked to be a short drive across a field of prickly plants was actually a steep two mile climb. She drove slowly, the gravel uneven in places, the dust pluming up behind her.
The hike was worth it, amazing, fantastic. The marble rocks looked like they had just hardened, oozing around other rocks, pebbled river beds frozen in time. She had hoped to reach the end of the two mile trek, but her knee hurt after forty-five minutes, so she turned back, never reaching the promised dry waterfall at the end of the canyon, everything being just out of reach, farther than it looked.
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