Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of A Man Without a Country Review of Gail's Place Review of Three 1-Act Plays Review of Yesterday's A Dream Crossword (Solution Posted in May. Printable version in pdf format of journal.) Jan/Feb Crossword Solution Creative Nonfiction Imagining Nora By Lisa Norris Loving the Fat Girl By Christina Fisanick Nate's Fish and Poultry Shop By G. David Schwartz The Folly of Valentine's Day By Andy Martello Poetry Hawk King By Wanda D. Campbell After the Rain By Wanda D. Campbell You Cannot Fold the Flood. By Mariela Perez-Simons And Darkness Fell By Beth L. Block Demise of a Family Resort By Carolyn Howard-Johnson The Asparagus Cutters By Joe Wilkins Fiction Voices By Ed Boyd Little White Sambo By Brett Alan Sanders Dies Irae By Timothy Reilly Follow By Dawn Paul Crumbs By Kim Tremblett Cover Art Photography by Seth Brown About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Bill Mausteller Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/submission.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/volunteer.html.

Follow By Dawn Paul I was hiking north on a cold, brilliant day. There had been a freezing rain the night before, and ice-coated birches gleamed and crackled all around me. The mountain fell away on the east side of the trail to a snow-covered river in the valley below. On the ridge across the valley, the wind lifted tendrils of snow into the blue sky. My boots creaked as I walked, a small conversation between them. My pack sat comfortably on my shoulders. I had only one more hour of daylight, but I was not worried. The trail was straightforward. I had hiked it in spring. It was easier to follow now, with the woods open and clear. I thought of the cabin with satisfaction. The woodstove, the small plank table, the bunks against the wall. Nothing extra. Shelter for the night and a place to cook my dinner of hot soup and biscuits. No one else had signed the logbook at the trailhead, and I looked forward to having it to myself. The woods were quiet. There was only the companionable creaking of my boots and the tinkling of ice when a breeze riffled the birches. The trail was a smooth white opening through the woods. It steadily gained elevation, and the muscles in my legs and shoulders felt loose and strong. It was good to be in the mountains again, to let my body work and my mind drift. The trail opened out at a ledge. I took off my pack, ate a handful of raisins and walnuts, and drank some water. The ridge across the valley was stark white against the sky—a wilderness of wind-scoured ice above the treeline. I was happy to be down in the woods out of the wind. I heard ravens calling, a harsh and joyful sound, like an ancient infant. I saw them flying across the valley. They flew straight up, then stalled, nearly flipping over backwards. Then they plummeted headfirst, with their wings held close to their bodies, spinning as they fell. They caught themselves in mid-air, then swooped upwards to begin the game again. They did this over and over, calling to each other. I laughed and the sound of my own voice startled me, which made me laugh again. The ravens plunged and swooped, then disappeared up the valley. I took a last drink of water and shouldered my pack. I heard a noise behind me and saw a flash of red in the landscape. Another hiker. Suddenly the woods seemed full, crammed with humanity. One lone person, another woman—I could see her clearly as she moved up the trail—and I was without solitude. I turned to walk on. I’d had my rest and eaten my fill. But it seemed odd—a rude dismissal—to walk away without acknowledging this one other person’s presence on the trail we now shared. I waited for her to gain the snowy ledge. She was small and slight and carried a compact rucksack. She was not wearing a hat and had close-cropped blond hair and wide-set eyes. Her skin was remarkably white. It was so pale that the veins beneath gave it a bluish tinge. Her lips were dark violet. I wondered if she was ill. But her steps were sturdy, and she did not even stop to rest. She gave me a slight smile as she turned her body aside to move past where I stood with my bulky pack. She walked ahead and out of sight. One moment, I was watching her red jacket and neat pack flickering through the trees. Then she disappeared into the white landscape. I felt trapped between her and the trailhead and wished I had gone on ahead. I was following her footprints now, her small boot soles neatly impressed into the snow. At each turn in the trail, I expected to find her resting for a moment. I wanted to pass her and have the mountain to myself again. Once I thought I saw her red jacket and I hurried ahead, but it was the curling inner bark of a birch catching the afternoon light. The trail became steeper. My breath was loud and ragged in the quiet woods. I was pushing myself now, conscious of the time. A piece of gear had come loose on the front of my pack and made a persistent clink that marked the rhythm of my steps. I was sweating. I unzipped my jacket and a gust of body heat rose to my face. It is unwise to become soaked with sweat on a winter hike, but I did not want to stop to take off my jacket. I wanted untrammeled snow ahead of me. The sun was edging below the mountain that rose on the west side of the trail and the birches cast long blue-gray shadows. I followed her tracks through a grove of bare beech trees and along a frozen, snow-covered stream. The water gurgled urgently under the ice. I was glad when the trail veered away from the stream and its insistent noise. I was walking one breath per step now. We were approaching treeline. No more birch here, only gnarled and stunted spruce. The air was colder. I felt each frigid breath as it entered my lungs, and I breathed out a gauzy mist that frosted my lips and cheeks. My fingertips started to burn. I kept my head down, watching her tracks. I had no idea how far ahead she might be. I listened for the sound of her footsteps through my racket of creaking boots, huffing lungs, and my pack clanking like a tinker’s cart. The sun slipped behind the mountain and I walked in cold shadow. The ridge across the valley glowed with a pink-gold light that gradually faded to gray. Her tracks were dark violet in the blue snow. They were evenly spaced. They showed no sign that she ever stopped or varied her pace. The spruce grew more bent and tangled as I climbed. I stooped with my heavy pack to twist my way through them, cursing the extra items I had packed, the books, the reading lantern. I had anticipated reaching the cabin before dark. Twigs snagged my jacket and my pack kept catching on low branches. The snow was deep and drifted in places. Once I thought I had lost her footprints, and my throat went tight with panic. I realized that I was relying on her tracks now. I could not see the trail in the tangle of shadowed spruce. I was tired. Sweat chilled my chest and back. My fingertips and toes burned. I tried to remember to flex them to keep the blood running, but my concentration wavered. Then the cold would remind me again. I pictured her snug in the cabin. A fire in the woodstove, water boiling for tea in the big copper-bottomed kettle. I was hungry but did not want to take the time to stop and take off my pack. I was surprised to find myself shivering despite the hard effort of climbing. I allowed myself the thought that I might not reach the cabin before complete darkness. I had a headlamp, but did not feel prepared to make my way in the dark. It took all my concentration to walk without stumbling, to follow her shadowed tracks through the long December twilight. It seemed well past the time that I should have reached the cabin. I thought of checking my watch but it was too great an effort to take off my gloves and push back the cuff of my jacket. It was enough to lift one boot, then the other, to pull in another lungful of cold air and expel it. To remember to move my numb fingers and toes. To follow her footprints in the snow. Finally, I stopped. I took off my gloves and unsnapped my pack belt, watching with detached interest as my numb, white-tipped fingers clawed at the buckle. I let the pack slide down my back to the ground. My shoulders seemed to rise, weightless. My body felt like it might spin and roll like the ravens in the valley. It seemed like a long time ago that I had watched them, sitting alone brimful with contentment. A dizziness came with the luxurious feeling of bodily lightness. It was as though the weight of my pack had kept me tethered to my purpose. I knelt in the snow and clasped my hands between my thighs to warm them. I bent my head and closed my eyes. I could hear blood rushing in my ears, the wind distant and constant. There was something voluptuous in the sudden cease of effort. She was not hiking to the cabin. The thought floated up, and I watched it with the same detachment with which I had noted my frozen fingertips. I was no longer on the cabin trail. I would have to go all the way back to the point at which her tracks diverged from the trail. Or spend the night in the snow with what little useful gear there was in my pack. I had counted on the shelter of the cabin. I had allowed myself to count on her to lead me there. The sky was velvety blue, almost black. I was lying in the snow now, my head on my pack. I may have fallen asleep. I thought I heard the ravens calling and raised my head to listen. They were far away. The valley would still be in twilight, but here night had fallen. Night, and I was lying in the snow. How had I come to this? Anger roused me and I cursed her, yelling into the sky, for leading me up to the cold and dark. Then the other side of anger—shame—flushed my body’s core with heat. I cursed myself quietly for following. I sat up and fumbled in my pack until my stiff fingers found a chocolate bar. I tore the wrapper with my teeth and ate the bar without tasting, fuel for my body’s spluttering fire. I broke a thin layer of ice in my water bottle and drank deeply. Then I stood and beat the blood back into my hands and feet. I stopped to listen for the ravens, but there was only the wind. I wondered if I had dreamt them. I put on my headlamp and turned its bright beam on her footprints. They led upward to the wind. I thought of the small pack she carried. She was not prepared for a night above treeline, and I did not know of any other trails that led down from the summit. I shouldered my pack and, once again, followed her tracks. But the urgency now was for her, not myself. I reached the edge of the stunted spruce, the treeline. Above was the summit, open to the constant, bitter wind. In the lee of a stone, I saw a final heel print in a shallow drift of crusted snow. Beyond it, the ground was hard with rock and ice. I stepped out of the shelter of the spruce and swept my light back and forth across the wind-blasted landscape. She was not there. I had not known her intentions when I followed, and I did not know them now. A blast of wind drove ice crystals into my eyes, and for a frightened moment I thought my eyelids had frozen shut. I turned my back to the killing wind and ducked into the safety of the spruce. I picked out our footprints in the beam of my headlamp and followed them, stopping only once to gnaw at another piece of chocolate. I found my way back, to where our paths diverged—mine to the warmth of the cabin and hers to wherever she was going in the darkness.