Skiing up Archangel road the Monday before last, I was the poster child for unpreparedness in the wild: I ventured out alone; no one knew where I was; my phone was without service; the new snow was damp and the temperatures had been warm-ish previously; I was traversing a known avalanche area; I had no food, water, change of clothes, rain gear, shelter, nor fire starter on my person; the road up to Hatcher Pass (up which I'd foolishly driven) was un-plowed and un-sanded and likely to be so for quite some time.
Once on the trail, an ominous fog filled the valley and the sky turned a humid overcast, one that suggested rain instead of new snow, a disastrous turn for me thermally. Animal tracks littered the ground, the most recognizable were of snowed over moose imprints. The beast(s) had used the road much as I was, moving up (or down), not crossing like all of the other tracks which ran perpendicular to the roadbed. The feeling that I was accompanied by large and unseen creatures began to crowd the trail as I skied. Noises from my person gave me pause and I tended an ear to the surrounding brush only to find the silence of the swishing river some distance away. The fantasy that I was the sole human being in a large volume of space was easy to indulge.
I thought a lot about death.
Monday past my special lady, who is ripe with child, had the day off with me, the first in what seemed like quite a stretch. We woke up, made breakfast together (eggs, pancakes, bananas, and syrup), before driving down to the Matanuska river where we went on a walk to, among other things, scout out a place for our son's placental burial.
The snow was crisp, in those little frozen balls it makes, and not the flakey variety. The noise we raised as we descended onto the covered river stones and walked along the stream bed was a thing that you believe certain to be on the highlight reel of your life as you lay dying in some hospital bed or on the scene of some horrible accident. We crunched along, she and I, when we saw a raven come to light on the ground about a bow shot away. We investigated and the raven flew off, cawing. We found the bird to have been at some mysterious foraging, the object of which was not discernible to us. We returned home.
After, I went for a separate walk to meditate on the Joyous Mysteries. During the journey, I slipped and fell and the impact jarred throughout my body, then and afterward even. I made my way, feeling that corporeality, as I stood at a grave and talked to an old lady. I cleaned her headstone of a fresh, wet snow and told her about the change of seasons and of lives.
Later still, I went out to the alehouse to watch the football game. I drank beer and ate quesadillas, with relish and gusto and all manner of fevered existence, before returning home again and eventually to bed. I read for a bit, Dostoevsky's The Idiot, before reaching over to quench the light. My arm was over my lady and with my hand on her belly the in utero movements of our child reached me. I imagined him there as he slept or played or danced or fought.
I thought about his coming birth and all its . . . vicissitudes.
Tuesday I dressed formally. A mentor of mine (a beautiful man I'd like to call my friend) had endured the final (yet never ending) loss of his son. Gussied such, I set out. The day was wintry, cold, with a sky of promising snow. A few flurries dusted the streets as I drove to my local cafe. I needed to load up on coffee before the Mass and the beauty of that short trip struck me. Various birds arced through the sky. A raven sat on a light pole. Music blared from the van's speakers. The sky, a harsh metallic hue, promised nothing but pain. I found myself shouting at everything. I parked and went in.
The cafe was filled with Marines, one of whom walked with a cane and had a jacket that heralded him as a member of a unit involved in the Marine Corps battle of the Chosin Reservoir. They were lately celebrating the 240th birth of the Corps. They were boisterous. Loud. Glad handing. Semper Fi-ing. I sat and had coffee and advanced work on a story, one about a mass shooter styled on a person I'd known during my own enlistment in that storied organization, until it was time to leave for the service.
Snow fell. The Mass was prayed. The sky broke and the sun cast light through the stained glass, coloring the kneeling faithful. Eucharist was received. The priest blessed us and bade us go forth. I hugged my friend and said I was sorry.
On the road for home, I wept, filled with thoughts.
