Timberline
I left hours and hours ago now. I really have no idea. At the time of my departure, I left the warmth and comfort of a morning campfire. My ten year old son and wife were gathering wild strawberries for a breakfast treat when I felt this impulse to leave and go for a hike.
I deliberated this whim for a moment, but I hadn’t been by myself in several years. As a parent, there are constant noises in life. Even in the quite of late evenings there is this ceaseless ringing in my ears; the aftermath of long days. My suburban bedroom is never fully dark enough to sleep. Even with all the shades drawn, the light of nearby street lamps manage to creep through the crevices in the blinds like a steely snake. On sleepless nights I stare at the flickering forms of light on my wall, wishing them away. The early sun would extinguish the street lamps, but by then it was of no use. Another day starts. The coffee pot sputters to life with a steamy whistle, while the television blares the voices of high pitched cartoon farm animals. The subtle yet somehow stinging sound of my cell phone dinging in my pocket causes my blood to steam like that damn coffee pot. I have to check it. I just have to. I have to check twice.
But up here, within this green valley nestled precariously between the peaks of two dominate Colorado mountains, there is a promise of something different- serenity; if not for just the briefest of moments. The idea of casual sex with mother nature arouses my inner being. I want it so badly. A minge-a-tois of sorts, as the wind blows and the sun kisses my rosy-hot cheeks. An airy and delightful tryst, the kind in which my wife would never know about as the clouds are mute bastards and the air up here is very thin. So I go.
As I walk away, my son, Aiden, stops me. “Where are you going, Dad?” His voice pre-pubescent and innocent.
“I’ll be back in just a bit, Aiden-buddy,” I say. “You run back to your mother and let her know.”
I watch as he runs. His little khaki cargo shorts purchased from the thrift shop clack with the sounds of surreptitious stones contained within their pockets, Velcroed tight to prevent unwanted disbursement. By day’s end, he’d sort through them all and tuck his favorites into the deep well of his sleeping bag.
My wife, Cara, glances up at me and shields her eyes from the sun with the salute of her soft hand. The sun’s beam exposes secret slivers of silver hair spread randomly among her otherwise jet-black coif. If she only knew, the dye would be out the next day. It isn’t my place to let her know. I’m not certain yet, if at our middle-ages, these conversations could be had. Cara’s mother, Agnes, died two years ago. Her closeness with Agnes almost certainly meant a topic such as graying hair would have been delegated to her. Ever since cancer took Agnes at the age of 62, I sense the void in Cara’s life. She is silent about it, though I never bother to pursue her feelings. I just figure the time would eventually be right.
I tap my watchless wrist and call down upon her, “I’ll be back in a half-hour or so. Just a quick hike this way. I’ll bring back some starter wood for tonight’s fire.” She nods and resumes her strawberry gathering.
Aiden looks at me, and I can see from his sullen face he wants me to stay. It is just a hike. It is just a breath of fresh air. I turn my back on him and walk. I feel a familiar twinge of guilt associated with child rearing. It happens whenever I put my needs ahead of his. Like those times when I find myself scrolling Facebook, Twitter, and whatever the fuck else is out there, while my son dances and playfully calls for my attention. Every time I look up, my eyes adjust to the glow of reality, and he seems bigger. His hair is longer and blonder; his features somehow more mature.
I inhale the deep sensual smell of raw pine and wild flowers. I follow the path and start the hike. I have with me a shiny fisherman’s pocket knife and a full plastic water bottle in my back pocket. I stop and notch my initials into the tree at the path’s entrance. Sticky sap drips from the stoic pine like blood. The amount surprises me. I swipe the substance with my middle finger and rub it briskly with my thumb. It is tacky, as sap should be. I rub what I can onto my pants, wash the sticky remains off my fingers with a bit of drinking water and continue on.
Hiking was something I had done with my parents and I think of them. My father died ten years ago and my mother never recovered from the loss. I envision her resting alone in bed, stroking her tabby wondering when it would ever be appropriate to eat a meal again. I make a mental note to visit her upon my return, if only for a few hours with Aiden. She’d cheer right up, I suppose. It’s easy bringing the kid with me on these visits, this way I won’t have to deal with any of her real emotions.
I have my own issues to contend with. Aiden’s elementary school starts again in one month. Aiden is gifted and Cara and I both thought he’d benefit with some summer classes. That shit is expensive, and I hadn’t had a raise in three years. My company has me by the fucking balls. I wish I were comfortable taking that proverbial risk, but with Aiden here, the notion of throwing my hands in the air and screaming “Fuck it all! I’m starting over!” only works if you’ve got money to spare. Like I said- by my old fucking balls.
I focus on being alone. I count the singularity of my steps- One. Two. Three. Four. I listen to the patterns of my breath- inhale, hold, exhale. I concentrate on slowing the cadence of my heart- thumpa-thumpa-thumpa… thump-thump-thump… thump-thump. I manage elevation gain- switchback after switchback; the sensation of heat is replaced by a ripple of chill across my entire body.
I wonder how many berries Cara and Aiden have collected. I picture the joy on their faces. Aiden’s smile can make the heart of a salty old sailor melt faster than the polar ice caps. I can see his strawberry stained teeth stretch across his face; the look of contentment and pleasure. Cara would smile, and then she’d drift again. Her eyes unfocused and wondering in this direction and that. The occasional bashful eye contact is all that is left of her. Her youthful soul replaced by worry and anxiety: Agnes, motherhood, work and chores. All of which are symptoms of a bigger ailment no one has figured how to avoid- birth.
The vegetation changes. I find myself among brutes of thick pine groves whose entwined branches seem to silence the whispers of dissent. The ridged peaks of white-capped mountains peer down on me between breaks in the clouds. The wind stirs snow off the peaks like a fury tantrum. Flakes of ice snow blink in and out of sight as they glance off the sun’s setting rays. Setting? Maybe I was just disoriented.
I notice the path under my feet disappeared. I feel the cold tingle of frostbite on the tips of my fingers, and I fold them into my palm for warmth. I reach for the water in my back pocket and take a ferocious swig. The cold water both burns and soothes my parched throat. I try to remember how many steps I reached before I stopped counting. Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Jesus, did I count that high?
I turn and head back from whence I came, or so I think. I’m not exactly certain. Out from the trees, I stand in the silent, sterile presence of timberline. All around are ancient stones taking nothing from the atmosphere and offering nothing in return. Same as yesterday as same as today as same as tomorrow. My long shadow is frozen to the ground as if it tattooed in permanent ink. For a moment, I think this was what it must be like to walk the moon. I kick at a loose stone. A cloudy haze of gray dust springs forth and settles with a sound reminiscent of cold water on a hot frying pan.
Overhead, the clouds fight off obscurity of the evening and radiate pink hues from the sun’s waning light. The merciless moon floats with purpose in full and ready to take over. There is an hour maybe two left before darkness would overcome the light. I just want to get back to my concerned family. If I hustle, I could find myself comforting Cara, and tucking Aiden into his sleeping bag. Maybe I’d just tuck him into my bag and hold him tight through the chill of a Rocky Mountain night. Maybe I could talk with Cara about things.
As I weave through the forest on borrowed light, my mind stalks me like a child molester, robbing me of spontaneity, youth and happiness. It’s these damned thoughts. The ones that seem to follow me to the places that only I could possibly know about and touch my privates.
I think of the two dreams I have the most. The one in which Aiden is taken by demons, as my voice shouts incoherent and muffled attempts at the word, stop. The second is of Cara in the arms of a lover who isn’t me. He is a tall man with a full beard, significant hands, and the eyes of a lion. I’d wake from this dream to that cursed stale light of that fucking street lamp, and the sound of harsh rapping of rain at my window laughing at my prone, naked body. I’d turn over and Cara’s eyes are half open. I’m convinced I am staring at her dead body, until I see her chest rise and fall under the facade of our rose-patterned bed sheets. This is my mind on alone time.
I walk. My legs feel useless and my feet may well be rooted in the ground. The full moon enters through crevasses in the trees above, forming eerie patterns of ceaseless shadows across nature’s floor. But it is bright enough to reflect off the bleeding tree where my initials are wet and sticky to the touch. A cold wind hits me hard, my fingers are numb. I find my way back, but the tent is empty and the embers of our fire long ago extinguished.
Author: Darrin Carr
About the author: Darrin lives in Colorado and considers his state a balance between rugged individualism and modern progressivism. The Porcupine Review is proud to be the first to publish Darrin’s work.
Editors Remarks: Timberline represents the struggles and sacrifices individuals make when taking risks. This piece reminds us that behind every success, there is a climb, there is blood and there is often raw loneliness and yearning for something that may or may not even exist.