The Sky has Broken

Yesterday I got my autumn.  My housemate Laura and I attempted to climb to the highest point in Arizona - Humpreys Peak, pinnacle elevation 12,633 feet.  We certainly didn't make the top, though we hiked all day and gained 2,000 feet in elevation.  It was a whole chill day in the quiet woods, from early morning breath-steam through to the diffuse light and creeping numbness of twilight. 


The trail wound past tall aspens who had already lost their leaves - lithe elegant pinstriped Dia de los Muertos skeletons - and over well-worn knobbly roots like fawn legs.  The ground was covered with downed aspen leaves, bright amber against the gray deadfall.  Surprisingly for that altitude, we also walked through quite a bit of hip-high dry grasses which whispered in the breaths of air and reminded me of the softness of unbleached flour.  At midday when the sun warmed patches of the forest it smelled like Sisters, Oregon - all volcanic dust and pine sap.  And then again in the shadows, when the wind chilled my nose and the tips of my ears and I crushed the needle of a stout little fir between my fingers, it smelled exactly like Christmas. 

We'd stop to rest and snack and rehydrate along the way and more than once I almost fell asleep with a belly full of may-I-just-say delicious homemade trail mix (heavy on the coconut and chocolate chips) and the sun warming my feet through my boots.  We good-naturedly gave up mid-afternoon and our morale (and our pace) improved dramatically on the way down.  After viewing a vast sunset shot through with gold we stopped for a celebratory beer and ice cream in Flagstaff: Oktoberfest and pumpkin flavored, respectively.  Fall, fall, fall.


Today in more familiar climes the wind was certainly kicking up its heels.  We at the Castle celebrated Teddy Roosevelt's 151st birthday with cake and commemorative pens and a special interpretive program.  Wind clapped our cardboard T.R. cutout so hard on the back that he was knocked over, but the ol' roughrider recoveredstoically.  The sky's been a boiling pot of miner's laundry all day; the water in the Well was choppy and ruffled and made the ducks laugh like debauched old men.  Tomorrow this storm is supposed to be fully upon us, just in time for my first day staffing Tuzigoot, our ridgetop pueblo with the great view.


As always, the wind animates me like it does the rusty leaves scuttling along the ground.  Between the quietude of the mountain and the brushed metal feel of today, I feel like some of the thoughts I've been thinking since my arrival have gained new space.  I'm not sure if they will diffuse like smoke or flit about like sparrows, but finally my soul hath elbow room.  I can breathe now, even if the air is thinner and it is rough like fir needles in my chest.  It's a scrubbed clean, raw feeling and I don't want to lose it - though by its nature it's not something I can hold tight to.  I've also regained easy access to the parallel worlds that always present themselves to me in fall: the Sweet Alice Preserve, the farm, the House of Elrond, the savannas of the mulefa, the Heron Program survival shelter.  They are all painted in the same honeyed hues and blow into my awareness on playful blusts.  I chase them.  Darting with my eyes streaming, breathing hard, my feet slapping the ground - all sounds blur in my ears into a rush and a roar.  Because I can.