Thanks again for the support
There is and will be more, I have begun serious work. The Dead of Night calls to me, I can hear it through the ringing in my ears.
On an old road, left to it's own, a lone fig tree stands, grapes at it's base, all that is left, of what was. The stream bed, buried in flood gravel, follows the road until it escapes up the hill. I sat in that fig's shade, listening to the rustle of big leaves, as the convected air roamed by. The old Chevy pick-up, resting, rusting, awaiting the twisted ordeal of a switchbacked climb. It's block cracked, freely exchanging oil to water, water to oil, creating a smell of mungy brown foam. That scent, bringing to mind, the Fatherly admonishments to "check the Goddammed thing before you burn the Sonofa##### up" With a sigh born of dilligence, it's life fluids topped, the starter winds in it's ever diminishing life, the big six sputters, a dense blue cloud drifts downstream. The last of the flat, safe road ends at the displaced Cemetary, second gear lugging, a straining torture of 27 switchbacks crafted from wagon ruts, paved inadequately, beaten by ages of logging truck summers and 100" winters. Windy Nip, Panther gap, Low Saddle, pioneer nameplaces hear the grinding rattle of our passage. Quick wary glances monitor temp gauge, all that can be shared with the road's attention. Shale slides covet the banks, culvert failures narrow the path, rocks lay where they land, overgrown Tanoak trees cause tunnels against the sky. The top of the ridge is gained, another respite for us. The view is far, the hill falls steeply from both sides, shimmering breezes carrying the spicy essence of plants burnt by summer's excess. No comfort here, the shade went through a distant headrig, framing for another's shelter. More switchbacks, steeper here, first gear holding against the singed smell of brakes. The face has changed, trees gave way to Tanoak brush, then thinned to Poison-oak clumps, a wan, tired grass clings to the hard soil. The Valley appears, but our goal is the farside, a hill beneath a jagged range. The smell of river damp willows, the planked rumble and thump over the Mattole, a quick turn, a blessed stop. Ears singing, legs wobble releasing tension, tired hands grip a cold, foaming reward, rinsing away traces of the passage.
