Elizabeth Inness-Brown
Stephen
Stephen used to say that a white bird flying in the direction
we were driving was a good omen. Even at the time it seemed an
ironic way to sanctify our crossing the country at seventy miles
an hour on a superhighway, but somehow when Stephen said it, it
felt right. The car was a 1967 Volvo, a station wagon with no
rust even though it was ten years old, and seemed older, with
its leather door pouch for holding maps and simple, rounded instrument
panel. We kept our money in the glove compartment, in a jewelry
box bound with a rubber band; in the glove compartment also was
a jar containing ginseng root, which Stephen thought would help
keep us awake at night. There was no radio or air conditioning,
and since we were traveling in a July heat wave, sometimes when
I got out of the car my t-shirt was so wet that it hung down to
my thighs. On the other hand, one bright dawn in Minnesota we
passed a vast field of giant sunflowers, facing the sun like a
throng of worshippers.
For me the trip was entirely a lark, of a kind I'd never gone
off on before. I had no reason for going except to get out of
the city and to be with Stephen, a friend's old friend I'd only
met a few weeks before. I had sublet my apartment and borrowed
a hundred dollars to put in the jewelry box, and packed up my
camping gear, such as it was: Sierra cup, borrowed aluminum-frame
pack, sleeping bag, poncho, boots, and an old package of moleskin
somebody'd forgotten in my bathroom. The night before we left,
it was so hot in New York that we had one of those famous black-outs
that lead, as surely as war but maybe not as significantly, to
a population boom. And the next morning our leaving seemed charmed,
with no stoplights and little traffic to slow us down, at least
as far as New Jersey.
Stephen had friends in Chicago, who were getting married, and
some in Madison, Wisconsin, and from there he'd planned a trip
that put us on the tourist trail: through South Dakota to the
Badlands, Mount Rushmore, the Black Hills; then on to Yellowstone,
the Tetons, and down to Colorado. I remember that first night,
arriving finally in a Chicago suburb, twitchy from the coffee
I'd drunk after the ginseng didn't work and Stephen almost fell
asleep at the wheel. From the sauna of the car we went into someone's
over-chilled basement and fell onto narrow twin beds, and it was
the first night since we'd met that we didn't make love. In the
morning we ascended the stairs like spectres and opened a door
to the bright activity of wedding preparations, strange women
asking us our names and offering plates of french toast.
I don't remember the wedding; I remember watching a display of
midwestern lightning from the front yard of that house, and then
transferring ourselves to an un-air-conditioned apartment in the
city. On a tinny stereo there, I heard Bob Wills and the Texas
Playboys for the first time; and I remember looking out the window
at an Indian rubber plant on someone's balcony while we made love
on the sofabed and Stephen gave me my first orgasm. Later, we
walked down the street holding hands and talking wisely about
how this euphoria of ours probably could not last. On another
day I crashed a ten-speed bike, the first I'd ever ridden, during
a ride along Lake Michigan--a fat man and I collided and I literally
bounced off him. Afterwards, for lunch, I had the first and best
Mexican food I've ever had: chicken flautas, refried beans, and
yellow rice.
In Madison our hosts had a dog, huge with white fur, that shed
a kind of animal snow in the corners of their apartment. The town
lies between two lakes which would like to be one, and the night
it finally rained--which everyone thought would end the heat wave--the
streets flooded and Stephen showed me how to drive in high water,
how not to stall or get the brakes wet. We saw an MG filled to
its windows with murky water, but we didn't try to drive down
that street ourselves. After the rain, it was hotter than ever.
Two other things I remember: Stephen making guacamole with blue
cheese, leaving the avocado pit in the bowl to keep the dip from
discoloring and then bringing it, and chips, out onto a rickety,
second-story back porch for us to eat; and a discussion we had
about my dislike of and ineptitude for swimming, an area in which
I compared badly to his ex-girlfriend Laura, whom he'd been with
for three years in Colorado. She was skilled, it seemed, in many
ways I was not.
After that we were on our own, until Boulder.
Somewhere I have a picture of myself on that second leg of the
trip, standing in front of a yellowish Badlands rock formation
in a man's undershirt and jeans. My hair's short, my shoulders
tan and muscled, and there's something unfamiliar about my posture.
I seem to be unaware of myself, casual, more assured than I feel
now. Of course, I was posing for the camera, and for Stephen,
who had a theory that most people's problems were rooted in a
failure of their confidence. He would stand on the far bank of
a rushing creek and yell this wisdom to me as I tried to get up
the nerve to cross as he had, balanced on a single-log bridge.
Half the time I ended up taking off my boots and socks, rolling
up my pants, and wading, hoping that I wouldn't fall and drown,
my 30-pound backpack holding me under. The times I did cross on
the log, something powerful surged through me, like hope or electricity--probably
then I looked as I do in the photograph, like a woman who drives
a pick-up truck and digs her own ditches.
Stephen had never been to college, but he'd read a lot, and had
ideas about everything, and mostly they were good. So on our week-long
hike into the Yellowstone back country, we took lentils, rice,
fermented bean curd, and baggies of dried fruits and nuts, instead
of those expensive aluminum packets of freeze-dried stew. For
dessert we had carob-and-honey bars and herbal teas. Our food
took more time to cook, and to eat if it didn't need cooking,
because it was chewy; but no matter how hungry we felt, it filled
us up. One of the results of this diet was regularity; every morning
before we set out, we each took a roll of toilet paper and, away
from the campsite, dug holes and squatted like animals to shit.
Often we'd be in sight of each other, but I got so used to not
caring if I saw Stephen, or if he saw me, that it seemed unnatural
later, when we came out, to close myself into a stall to use the
toilet. Other things, too, would seem unnatural: shaving my legs
and under my arms, for one; colognes and deodorants for another.
We took one bottle of scentless, suds-less, biodegradable soap
with us, which we used for dishes as well as hygiene. And yet
I had none of my usual skin problems--no bumps, no rashes, no
itching; whether it was the change of diet, the clean water, or
simply staying longer in my natural oil, I don't know.
Even though I'd never before gone on a trip purely for the pleasure
of it, I had dreamed about it--about beaches, restaurants, hotels,
though, not hiking with no destination through woods and fields,
seeing no one else for days, and nothing to tell you where you
were except ambiguous trail signs--scraps of plastic, a dash of
paint--and vague, almost incomprehensible topographical maps.
We chose the trails we chose because of their descriptions in
the guidebook: "vast meadows of wildflowers" and "open
woods with clear walking"; or because the trail led to something
we wanted to see, a lake or a particular view. The meadow trails
were so infrequently used, and growth was so strong, that often
they would not have been visible except for the colored flags
stuck on posts, which sometimes had been knocked over by animals
or storms, so that we had to guess which way to go. If you'd registered
for the red trail, you had to follow it and by rights stay on
it till you came to your campsite; this was to protect the back
country from overuse.
Generally we followed the rules conscientiously, but one exhausted
night--I had pulled a muscle in my calf, and we both had blisters--we
cheated and stopped early, at a ranger's cabin that happened to
be along our way. Since the windows had no locks, we could have
slept inside, but something about that seemed wrong. So Stephen
only climbed in to "borrow" two packets of instant hot
chocolate, which was treat enough to make us feel decadent and
pampered. During the night we scared ourselves, thinking that
bears might come foraging, as they did at the more populous campgrounds
below--we'd heard stories of them breaking ice chests in two--and
so we dragged our bedding up onto the porch of the cabin to sleep.
As always, we'd hung our food sack in a tree, tying one end of
a rope to the bag and throwing the other over a branch to pull
it up. In the morning, it was still there, but some animal had
rummaged around the fire and found the empty cocoa packets, which
it had clawed apart expertly.
Except for those times when we found ourselves in an area known
for bears and so sang and clapped to announce our presence, Stephen
and I talked in half-whispers, if at all. Each of us had a thick
paperback book--mine was Dune and his Even Cowgirls
Get the Blues--and we read a lot, switching for variety every
couple of days. Setting up and breaking down camp became routine,
requiring no discussion. Stephen kept a diary, which seemed all
the listener he needed, and I took pictures. Physically I was
entirely content: exhausted at night, refreshed in the morning,
well-fed, and more than adequately stimulated by what I saw and
experienced: a run across an open field during a thunderstorm,
a sun-dried antler or the flattened grass of a moose bed, love-making
in the orange tent, the changes in terrain, sky, and weather,
or simply the novelty and challenge of being "outdoors,"
a word that lost meaning when there were no more doors to be outside
of.
Sometimes I wanted to ask Stephen what he was thinking about;
out there he seemed more distant, when I had thought isolation
would bring us closer. But I always stopped short. There could
be closeness without words, I knew, and from experience with other
men, I imagined that he might see my questions as demands or indications
of mistrust. So I kept quiet and trusted the small gestures, the
fact of the trip, and tried to forget the past and future.
One day, a plane surprised us, buzzing overhead; not long after,
we heard voices, other hikers coming toward us. Civilization.
We stopped and Stephen talked to the hikers, his voice enthusiastic.
The new hikers were a family, parents and two adolescent boys,
going in just for the night, wearing sneakers and carrying light
packs, obviously inexperienced. Stephen clearly liked seeing them
and telling them about the trail they were taking, a short part
of the longer trail we'd started out with. He even told them about
the coyotes singing at dusk and dawn, on the ridge. By the time
we got back to the car I was ready to plan our next hike, just
to get us away from other people, but Stephen wanted to rest a
few days, take a shower, eat in a restaurant, and sleep in the
back of the car down among the "white man," as he called
the tourists with their Winnebagos.
We did hike again, in the Wind River Range; but it wasn't the
same. What did I expect? Nothing's ever the same the second time,
never as good, even when it should be better. Afterwards we headed
toward Boulder; I remember stopping in Rock Springs on the way,
in a diner where all the music on the jukebox had Spanish titles,
and we listened to an incredibly tall, thin, and weathered man,
who prospected for a mining company, talk about collecting Indian
arrowheads for his grandchildren. From there the world began to
seem gradually more familiar, traffic and supermarkets and cars,
until finally, one weekday afternoon, we arrived in Boulder. In
the apartment where we'd be staying with friends of Stephen's,
I caught sight of myself in an unexpected mirror. I'd lost weight
and my hair had grown and I was tan and healthy-looking; I looked
like someone else altogether. While I was standing there, the
phone rang; Stephen answered it. It was Stephen's old girlfriend
Laura calling, just as surprised at hearing his voice on the other
end of the line as he was at hearing hers.
A week later I got a ride as far east as Ohio with a friend of
a friend of Stephen's, an overweight woman who smoked and listened
to the same eight-track tape all the way across Kansas. She only
let me drive once, for a couple of hours, and talked nervously
in a thin voice that I had to strain to hear, though I hardly
wanted to. We got into one of those midwestern thunderstorms,
waves of rain and lightning that followed us for most of the night.
She said she couldn't afford a motel, and I didn't want to prolong
the drive, so we didn't stop. I was afraid that she'd fall asleep
at the wheel, and so all night I stayed awake by telling myself
the story of my trip, and how Laura's news--that she was getting
married to someone else--had somehow cost me Stephen, and how
on our last night, lying on the porch in sleeping bags, Stephen
had told me that because he loved me, he had to let me go. It
was the first time anyone ever said that to me, and the last time
it ever seemed right. |