Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Bliss Review of Atheist Manifesto Review of The Stones Cry Out Film review of "Karov La Bayit" Creative Nonfiction A Reverence for Words By Virginia Hendry For the Wife of Bath and the Wife of Yeats, I Give Thanks By Sara J. Ford Birth By Clint Pearson Poetry Gong Fu By Tim J. Brennan Phases By Tolu Ogunlesi They Are Driving Their Cars Again, They Are Driving... By Anne Cammon Death of the Travelers By Abigail Grant Leaves By Matt Gee Fiction The Wood Splitter By Michael Phillips Boogie & Sarah Leigh By Sandra L. West What Happened to Matt Dillon By Chris Drangle Red, Manhattan, 523 By Beth Hogan Titanic Hat By D.K. McGill About the Contributors © 2007, 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 - Vacant 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 Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Senior Editor - Neeldhara Misra Senior Editor - Mike Munsil Assistant Editor - Steve MacNeil Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.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 VolunteerMatch.

Birth By Clint Pearson “You can’t keep me. I’m not staying.” The youngster snarled the words and raised his face, as several drops of water fell from his chin. The only reply was the brook’s quiet gurgle and the sweep of wind in the cedars. Looking up the gully, the teen glared at the trees and mountains that blocked his view of Homer’s Nose, a prominent but little-known peak in the Sierra Nevada. For years, he had looked at the Nose, hiked beneath it, marveled at it, and ached to stand on top with his chest heaving. Then one day, the fantasy tore from him like an irrepressible laugh, a soft giggle at first, then louder, less discrete, and finally convulsive, delirious merriment, disturbing and wild. His unbalance was such that he chose to climb without food, water, matches, or a map. A well-worn pack, a new and almost-too-sharp Gerber knife, and a sleeping bag were the only companions foolish enough to accompany him. And now, after three miles of run-walking on a dusty trail, he found himself looking toward Homer’s Nose, glaring at the trees, and growling at a stream that tempted him to rest too long and drink too much. “Come on, Clint, playtime’s over. Get your ass in gear.” He stood, pulled on his pack, and bounded forward, as if responding to the crack of a starting gun. Skinny and fit, Clint sported the long Van Halen hair of a rock star, but with the no-nonsense demeanor of a distance runner. So while he appeared sloppy and carefree, he measured worth, both of himself and others, with the precision and intolerance of a stopwatch. Straight away, the trail started to climb and provided an endless supply of switchbacks. Blowing through pursed lips like a laboring woman, Clint smiled at the strain but knew he had far to go. He told himself to keep working, not to stop, and he was only vaguely aware of a warmth building on the backs of his heels, compliments of his too-new, too-stiff boots. From time to time, he could see the stony smoothness of Homer’s Nose, its rounded and robust surface protruding above the skyline and looking more like a baby’s butt than a snout. The sight fueled his adrenaline, driving his legs faster and faster, and he soon became caught in the experience, mesmerized by the rhythm and the nonstop, in-and-out rush of air. His mind lost all doubt then; all sense, and his will set like the granite before his eyes. He just could not stop, any more than a pregnant woman could stop her labor with birth imminent. The infant was coming, butt-first and a ways to go yet, but given enough time and effort, delivery upon the summit seemed certain. Within an hour or two, the trail started to veer east, away from Homer’s Nose, and Clint abandoned it and climbed directly up the mountainside. Hiking became climbing that became hand-over-hand climbing, but Clint continued without pause. His heels burned now, and his mouth felt parched, but as he neared the top of the ridge, his eyes hardened into a feral glare. Then without warning, his vision blurred, and he stopped, closed his eyes, and shook his head. “No way, no repeat performance, no way.” Leaning against a weathered deadfall, he blinked several times and fought to slow his breathing, while trying not to remember. Two years prior, after an intense interval workout on the track, Clint’s vision had blurred and then doubled, producing dual, offset images that gyrated a bit and induced a certain dizziness. For several weeks thereafter, Clint had to tilt his head and touch the walls, while negotiating the corridors at Porterville High. Walking became difficult, running impossible, and although Dr. Taylor had nodded his head and smiled a bit, while listening to Clint’s story, he subsequently scratched his gray beard, shrugged, and ordered a barrage of blood tests as well as a brain scan. When the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis finally arrived, delivered by a young neurologist who looked more like an accountant than a physician, it elicited some throat-clearing and paper-shuffling, a handshake and a prescription for prednisone, but it brought few answers – no cause, no explanation, no prognosis, and— “What the . . .” A harsh smell tweaked Clint’s nose, and he bounded away from a nearby log, while swiping and slapping at scores of ants that were now crawling up his pant leg. After removing most of the ants, Clint marched up the trail only to slow momentarily and to smile-laugh. “Stupid son of a bitch should have been doing tax returns. Couldn’t diagnose crap.” Soon Clint was on the backside of the mountain, moving rapidly toward the Nose, and after pumping his fist, he quickened his pace even more. Then he stopped abruptly and stared at an unexpected obstacle. Spread over the mountainside like an unkempt hedge, a community of bush chinquapin grew thick and inflexible. Their branches extended and intertwined in knotty tangles, creating dark and tortuous passageways that ran low to the ground and accepted only the smallest of animals. Clint searched in vain for a crease, a weakness in the foliage. Going around was impractical, would entail substantial loss of elevation, and still might prove impossible. The only answer was to climb over the bushes, and although this was not easy, Clint managed and found progress to be surprisingly steady. Twice he fell through the branches, catching an arm on the first occasion, scratching his back on the second, but each time, he managed to twist and bully his body back on top. Slowly, in halting stop-starts, he continued his balancing act like a high-wire performer; only his act was completely devoid of grace. Realizing how absurd he must look, he laughed out loud, but his chuckle bubbled more in bile than in sweet cream, and as he plopped down from the last chinquapin, he raised his arms, growled, and even spit on the bushes. An hour later, he was close to Homer’s Nose, and with success now assured, he became aware of his thirst. After a brief but frenzied search, he managed to find a dark draw and joined a group of ferns at their spring. Falling onto his belly and giggling like a child on Christmas morning, he drank until his face, nose, and hands ached from the icy water. Then he stood, flicked and rubbed his hands and screamed with joyous pain. The sound raced from the gully and across the mountainside, reverberating through the pines, and made a Red-tailed hawk take flight. He felt cold and refreshed, ready to go, ready for the final push in the daylong struggle, and despite his throbbing heels, he stormed up the backside of Homer’s Nose without rest. The exhilaration of the finish masked the pain, and as the rocky surface flattened, the sky widened before him and became an orange sunset, blissful and glowing. Clint stared, squinting from the sun on his right, and as he walked to the edge of the rock, a cold gust slapped his face. He didn’t yell but smiled and raised his arms, staring across the immense expanse for many minutes, as if unable to understand the image before his eyes. Then as the air cooled, he lowered his arms, undid his pants, and urinated, and the stream fell and spread down the airy gorge until even the splatters were lost to the wind. For some reason, even after buckling his pants, he continued to stand and stare, and soon the sun disappeared, the sky darkened, and the air grew cool. He shivered then and seemed to rouse but was slow to prepare his sleeping bag and even slower to remove his boots. The relentless rubbing on the backs of his heels had formed big round blisters, and they had long since ruptured, leaving flaps of wet, pink skin that hung like used and shredded tissue paper below his Achilles tendons. Outside the confines of his boots, his heels began to throb, but he had no recourse other than to crawl into his sleeping bag and try to sleep. As he nuzzled into his bag, his stomach rumbled, but it didn’t seem to matter. The struggle was over, the race won, the baby born, or so he thought. Yet, for some reason, he slept restlessly and didn’t dream of winning. Instead, he saw himself starting a race. The gun sounded, and the crowd gave a brief cheer, but when he looked, the stadium was vacant, except for two small children eating ice cream. Then someone whispered his name, and he turned but saw only empty bleachers. Turning back, he found that the children were gone, and although the arena was relatively quiet, the wind was blowing through the stands, rattling the railings, and whistling strange admonitions that he couldn’t quite comprehend. * * * In the past, a pregnant woman sometimes carried twins, unknowingly. Her belly became immense and bulging, as expected, but to her surprise, the searing, body-tearing pains that tested her sanity only produced four or five pounds of screaming flesh and recurred after delivery. Her body betrayed her then, forcing her to relive the trauma, and although the burning and delirious intensity made her almost wish for death, she longed to live and to nurse the new lives emerging from between her thighs. At times, though, despite the contractions and engorged breasts, fate would be cruel, and one baby would wring from the mother flaccid and dead, or, sometimes, despite the mother’s endurance and tenacity and everyone’s love and expectations, the tragedy would befall both babies. * * * Clint awoke hungry, a curious sensation, not particularly painful but annoying, like an itchy bug bite. It was still dark but with a faint lightening of the sky that faded the stars. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep again and didn’t try but remained in his bag for many minutes, not ready to face the cold air. The warmth of goose down snuggled him, protected him from the urge to flee for home; at least, it did for a while. Preparing to leave, Clint yelped when he tried to put on his boots, and even after the boots were on, he shuffled stiff and crippled, a mere specter of the youth who charged up the mountain on the previous evening. He persisted, nevertheless, continued to move, and as the sun shot slivers of light through the pine trees, his heels quit protesting and allowed him to walk almost normally. Avoiding the thick brush that covered the top of the main ridge, Clint descended and traversed side-hill behind Homer’s Nose. Occasionally, lesser slopes ran off the main ridge, and Clint had to cross them to stay on course, but for the most part, the route required only intermittent effort, and before long, his mind began to drift. He recalled races he had won or should have won and others that he hadn’t entered because the medals were too small or the shirts too plain or the fees too pricey. At times, though, the mere presence of certain spectators warranted a good effort and was worth the cost of registration. These onlookers invariably waited near the finish line, smiling and giggling and posing, and the tightness of their jeans made running difficult for themselves as well as others. As bright, multicolored banners flapped and snapped in the wind, runners staggered or sprint-staggered to the finish, but Clint smiled, remembering more, remembering the cherry and swirl of red lips, their softness and pout, their motions and press. He heard lip smacks and even several moans, but the girls’ names and stories escaped him. Lost in thought, Clint followed a large ridge that broke to his left, and in less than half a mile, he lost significant elevation. Soon his mistake was obvious, and he stopped to look about. Yet, after only a brief pause, he shrugged and continued to descend, as if choosing a new route home from school. Perhaps, rampant wanderlust or a sense of adventure drove him, generating a disdain for the well-worn path and a love for the unknown, but, quite possibly, his choice was simpler, less noble, and just stemmed from his stubborn refusal to accept limits. As he continued, the ground pitched steeper and steeper, and he thought that it might degenerate into a cliff, but after two hours, the slope undulated and angled into a meadow where a meandering stream bubbled in quiet grandeur. The scenery was so idyllic and Clint was so awestruck that it was easy to imagine he had discovered a secret locale, a milieu of animals and spirits safely isolated and hidden from the outside world. Beaming, Clint dropped to his belly and drank from the stream for several minutes. Then with water dripping from his face, he rose to his knees and listened. The brook bubbled playfully, quietly, and the wind whispered in the nearby pines like a proud parent. The teen nodded and even laughed a little for he knew the sounds were for him, only him, and although he couldn’t quite recognize the words, he understood their meaning, or so he imagined. * * * Occasionally, the early pains of labor will fool a first-time mom-to-be, especially if she’s extraordinarily naive or pretentious. Feeling the first cramps, she’ll believe that they are the worst her body has to offer. She’ll smile, adjust the pillows behind her head, and ask for some Perrier with a hint of lime. She’ll recall her mother’s exaggerated description of labor, the report of horrific tearing and burning and blood, and she’ll giggle, as if it’s just a ghost story, a scary tale designed to make a child’s eyes widen and heart race. Of course, it’s not really real and not to be taken seriously by a mature adult, especially one with a career and a husband, a mortgage payment and an Ivy-league education. * * * Somewhat reluctantly, Clint started walking again, but now with the gradual grade and constant supply of water, his pace became steady, and he drifted into dreamy thoughts of luscious, albeit nameless, young women who sprawled and sighed, like sex-starved debutants. At any moment, he anticipated the emergence of blacktop under his boots or, at least, the whine of a nearby car engine, but hour after hour, nothing violated the natural backdrop, and his pace quickened at the thought of spending another night. Just as his pace escalated into a trot, the topography turned sheer. The brook tumbled off a breathtaking drop, falling and spraying into a deep chasm. To his right, Clint could see the mountain give way to a perpendicular precipice, as a river-carrying ravine cut deeply between the slopes. A similar but less impressive gorge lay to the left, craggy and dangerous, and across the expanse, two canyons away, a faint zigzag of a road waited like a finishing tape. Clint stared for several minutes, trying to formulate a strategy with acceptable risks, a plan both prudent and possible, but in the stillness of midday, no trails emerged and no helicopter blades chopped the air. The ease of the preceding hours, its enchantment, and the regal, fateful euphoria of discovery were erased and replaced by the reality of the challenge before him. And only the sight of the road gave him hope. Without the road, he might have folded or, at least, resigned himself to another night, but the end was visible, reachable. Besides, his anger was building, and before long, he felt the full force of the mountain’s betrayal – its nurturing, loving, easy-walking promise broken. “Fuck me.” Clint whispered the words but then raised his head and screamed at the canyon. “Fuck you.” The only possible path lay slightly to his left where a section of half-buried boulders and misshapen trees fought a steep but less-than-vertical grade. Looking at his inevitable path and at the faint line of road in the distance, Clint nodded. “I’m getting out of here today.” He started down the gorge, his feet sliding in the loose soil, freeing rocks and sticks and dirt that plummeted before him and disappeared in distant grumbles. Soon the slope grew steeper, and Clint turned to face the cliff, grabbing and pulling on roots, rocks, and bushes, anything to help him fight against gravity’s pull. Then the ground became rockier, tougher to gain a foothold, especially since dirt now covered and filled the young man’s boots. Clint looked below, but fifty feet farther the earth’s rocky surface was converted to an overhang of smooth stone. He began moving to his left, but when his left boot landed on a mossy rock, he fell instantly out-of-control. He tore his hands into the rocks and dirt, trying desperately to arrest his slide but succeeded only in peeling the skin from his fingers. Panic rose in his throat and prompted a new urgency to his clawing, but his frenzy was no match for gravity, and dirt, dust, and dried leaves blew from his hands like ashes in a strong wind. Some moments later, though, Clint slid over a mound of roots and rocks and slowed a bit. Feeling a large root, he seized it – eyes wild and jaw clenched – and stopped himself with a grunt, while debris showered upon and around him for several seconds. A spray of blood splashed on the ground in front of him, and he snorted to clear his nostrils. Ten feet below and slightly to his right, a stony overhang gave way to air, and although the drop was not fully visible, Clint instinctively moved away. Noticing a six-foot scrub pine sprouting from the bank on his left, he turned, took two steps toward it, and as more blood splattered on the ground, he grabbed the tree. Then he swung himself beneath it, and his feet dangled for a second before finding footholds. As the final beads of crimson trickled onto his shirt, Clint managed to creep to a lower bush. Resting, he touched his nose, snorted, and shrugged a little. When he dared to look beyond his handholds, the pitch made him dizzy, and he realized retreat was no longer possible. Below him, a torrent thundered, and he tried but couldn’t imagine a crossing in the noise. The gorge was narrow, the roar earsplitting, and as he descended, it grew louder and louder until the booming even disrupted his thoughts, like the appearance of blood in a fairy tale. * * * Sometimes, right at birth, on the verge of new life and near the cessation of pain, when the woman is pushing and pushing and pushing and everyone is screaming, cajoling, anticipating, when the baby is right there, hair falling out of the vagina, head showing, aiming, trying to slide, that’s when time stops, progress ends, and the woman lifts her head in alarm. “What’s happening? Isn’t it over, yet?” The answer is, of course, “no” but doesn’t need to be said for all know, all can see and hear, even the woman, the mother-to-be. All can still see her belly and hear the quiet. The delay is not really a problem, although the father is worried and can’t decide between anger and panic. The woman just needs to stretch more. After fourteen hours of contractions, gradually more intense and more frequent, producing dilations of two centimeters, then four centimeters, then seven centimeters, then finally ten centimeters, and after one hour of pushing, squeezing, straining, leg cramps, and crying, a little more time is needed. That’s all. There’s no problem. A little more time is needed to stretch and burn before spewing forth a squish-headed bundle smeared with vernix and mother’s blood. * * * Now the rush and its roar were close. Clint could see a short pool beneath a waterfall, but foam bubbled on its surface for only a second and then plummeted over the next fall – no way to cross. The smooth walls upstream provided no handholds, and although the downstream route appeared better, the difference was marginal. Clutching bushes to steady himself, Clint followed the water, but the next pool was also short, deep, and turbulent and degenerated into a fierce cascade. Continuing downstream, he came to a chest-high rock covered with pine needles and loose soil. As he dug his elbows into the mound and prepared to hoist himself up, an acrid smell tweaked his nose, and Clint realized the surface was swarming with ants, a blanket of black and red insects trembling the ground and scurrying up his arms. His position was precarious, and he had no choice but to endure the crawling and biting until after pulling himself onto the rock and moving away. Then and only then did he swipe, slap, and brush off the angry bugs, while uttering curses that the river’s noise effectively muffled. The next pool was longer, slower but still deep. The near side was deep, dark, and placid – perhaps, a great fishing hole – but the water exiting on the far side was concerning. Swift and waist-deep in a narrow channel, it subsequently pitched over a thirty-foot waterfall, crashing far below in a spray of white turbulence. Also, an eight-foot vertical rock protected the near side, while across the stream, a steep sandy bank slid all the way to the water. Clint peered at and studied the channel on the far side. If he waded it and slipped, he would be swept over the falls and killed, his body continuing down in a violent onrush, tumbling and falling an unknown distance before lodging on a rock or a log and waiting to be found months or, perhaps, years later. He looked to continue downstream and find a better crossing, but the bank became sheer and tall and without handholds. Looking back to the river, he now saw that the channel on the far side wasn’t all that deep or that fast. To cross it, though, he would need to jump into the pool, swim to the shallow end, and then wade the waterway. Clint removed his pack and flung it as far as he could, hoping to reach some dry rocks beyond the pool. Weighed down by the attached sleeping bag, however, the pack landed in the water and started to sink. Breathing in deeply, as much to summon his courage as to fill his lungs with air, Clint leaped from the rock and fell to the water with a splash. His waterlogged boots dragged him down a bit, but he fought to the surface and managed to swim. Reaching the shallows and grabbing his pack, he yelled and panted and felt his body shivering with new life. After shaking his head and frowning at his now soggy sleeping bag, he settled and studied the channel. Although anticipation gnawed at him, he forced himself to rest and to drink and spoke to himself, as if conversing with a good friend. “Don’t be in a hurry to die. Don’t hurry. You can do this, just take it slow.” Gazing into the current, he tried to discern the lay of the bottom, much like a gambler trying to read the future in an array of stoic faces. His hair was drying, his body warming, and soon it was time to bet. After chucking his pack across the rushing water and onto the other side, Clint ventured into the current. Close up, the water seemed swifter and choppier than it did from afar, and in an effort to ignore the noise at his back, he repeated a mantra. “Please, God, don’t let me slip, don’t let me slip, don’t let me slip.” The water pressed onto his waist, forming little rapids and rivulets in front of him, but he was braced, steady, and moved slowly despite the race of adrenaline. As the water crept onto his abdomen, his left foot was suddenly sliding, and his mouth watered bile. “Don’t slip, don’t slip, no, no.” He repositioned, stabilizing and venturing, fighting the increasing force of the current and trying to think above the din in his head. Two more steps, two more steps, damn it, come on, two more, almost there. The water fell to his thighs, and his feet still felt secure. Then his knees lifted clear, and he splashed into the shallows and sloshed and fell onto the safety of dry ground. Rolling onto his back, he rubbed handfuls of sand through his hair and felt the chafe of the coarse grains on his scalp. Then he yelled and stared and continued to stare into the bright blue sky, gaping and blinking until everything, even the water, became quiet. * * * After the baby is born, the new mother often exhales and sinks into the mattress, relieved that the ordeal is over. She may close her eyes or sob softly or even attempt to nurse, but something bothers her, something keeps tickling her thigh, and she’s reminded not only of the wet and sticky sheets and the smell, but also of a gush and fullness that continues to fill her. For quite a while, it just sits and dribbles and dribbles and forgets to swallow like someone sleeping too deep or too long. Nobody seems to notice or if they do, they let politeness or, maybe, embarrassment pull away their eyes. Then it flows thick and heavy and squeezes from her in slow motion, as if reluctant to leave. Her body cringes around the resulting hollow, and like a dying spider, she shrinks and retracts, trying to protect herself. But it’s too late. Her body is already hardening, becoming something new, and within a few minutes, her jaw has tightened more than a little. Perhaps, in the coming weeks or months, nobody will notice or bother to mention the parch of her face, the new sinew of her neck, or the strain about her eyes. But they’re still there, nonetheless, and night after night for years to come, she’ll toss and catch a slumber that drifts none too far nor too deep. * * * Clint opened his eyes but couldn’t remember shutting them. The afternoon sun was still hot and flushed his face. With a grimace and a slight groan, he rolled away, shifted to his knees, and for several moments, gazed at the bank where loose dirt and sand marked his eventual path. Then he stood, and with fine sand clinging to his clothes and hair like talc, he put on his pack and started to climb. Only once and only briefly did he stop to look at the gorge and to listen to the river, but as he worked, grunting and gasping for breath, cursing and climbing higher, his thoughts seemed to linger behind, like companions reluctant to leave their favorite swimming hole. At the top of the ridge, Clint paused and leaned against a rock, and with the sunshine and a cool breeze caressing his face, he closed his eyes and waited for several minutes. When he finally stirred, Clint rubbed the sand from his hair and started down the mountain. Falling into a rapid but sleepy rhythm, he ambled between the trees and bushes as if touring a city park. He gradually became aware that he was approaching another river, but the gentle hum and trickling noises did little to trouble his mind. Indeed, at the bottom, a wide river drifted leisurely, forming rivulets but not rapids, and its flow was like satin, too inviting to not touch. Clint chuckled as if embarrassed and started across, and although the water reached his waist and even knocked him off balance more than once, waterfalls did not loom behind him. Stopping in midstream, he lowered his face to drink, and as his hands played and paddled in the current for balance, he felt cool water flowing over his face, neck, and down his back. After crossing the river, he felt enthused by the unseen nearness of the road and marched up the mountain like a runner in his finishing kick. The afternoon sun was on the decline but still quite warm, even hot, and as the incline increased, the shade vanished altogether. At last, thick manzanita blocked further advance, leading to several difficult but disappointing attempts to circumvent the bushes. A couple of times, Clint heard the drone of a car, its whirr rising and then fading, but the rigid, red-chocolate branches along with the mountain’s steep pitch prevented him from reaching the road. He tried crawling under the brush, but his chest and face dragged in the dirt, and the undergrowth snagged his pack, scratched his cheek, and tore off his sleeping bag. Retrieving the bag, he re-tied it and flung himself forward, oblivious to the branches that tore his shirt and skin. Yet, despite his efforts, his advance was once again stymied. In desperation, he tried climbing on top of the bushes, but unlike chinquapin, manzanita did not lend itself to being climbed. Its thick, unyielding base rapidly tapered and twisted into an arrangement of thin, brittle branches that snapped or shifted under any significant weight. Numerous times his legs fell through and wedged between trunks, but each time, he scrambled back on top and continued. The road was shielded from view until the last moment, until just before Clint fell from a bush and felt the flat smoothness of blacktop under his boots. Had anyone been present, they would have watched him yell “Yeeesss” and might have considered him a wandering wild man, some homeless schizophrenic directed by voices to battle bushes and wrestle dirt. Or, perhaps, he was a bear-mauled hiker, desperate and exhausted, struggling to the road in search of medical treatment, some bandage to bind his wounds before speeding to the hospital in a wail of sirens. Clint slumped to the ground, legs folding in slow motion, and his butt dropped to the pavement. He didn’t try to move and just looked at the mountains, trees and bushes, and the road that curved out of sight in a downward arc. It felt good to stop, to sit, but he knew he might have to walk down the road several miles. “At least, there won’t be any fucking bushes.” Clint smiled. “You must be a crazy S.O.B., walking all this way and talking to yourself.” After a few minutes, he grew tired of waiting and stood to go, but as he did, he heard a car. Coming down the road, an orange pickup rounded the curve and stopped after Clint showed his outstretched thumb. “Need a lift?” “Yeah, down to Three Rivers.” “Jump in.” He did, slamming the door and feeling the comfort of the seat on his bum and back. “I’ve been in the woods for two days, and I wasn’t looking forward to the walk. I definitely appreciate the lift.” “It’s no trouble. My name’s Mark.” “I’m Clint. Where you from?” “From Arcata, up north, down here working for the Forest Service. How ‘bout yourself?” “I’m from around here. Just need to call my folks from Three Rivers and have them come pick me up.” “Where’s your car? Did you break down?” “It’s a long story, but my car’s over at the South Fork Campground.” He realized that no reasonable explanation could make sense of the sequence: climbing Homer’s Nose, blistering heels, fighting bushes, going north instead of south, walking beside a brook, through unspoiled country, climbing down cliffs, swimming rivers, wading currents, waterfalls, rapids, sand, sky—. “What happened to your arms and hands?” “It’s definitely a long story, but most of the scratches are superficial.” After several miles of small talk, they arrived at Three Rivers, a general store and gas station with a pay telephone and an assortment of nearby cabins for rent. “Thanks again.” Clint slammed the door and walked to the phone, but after listening to a grating, emotionless voice tell him to deposit 85 cents and after scrounging in his pack for the coins, there was no answer at his parents’ house. Where the hell can they be? He wasn’t sure about the appropriate parental response in this situation, but waiting anxiously by the phone, anticipating his call, and rushing to help him seemed like a reasonable plan. He called a friend. “Hey, Young, I’m stuck in Three Rivers, and I can’t get a hold of my parents to give me a ride back to my car.” “I saw your parents’ blue pickup at China Garden a few minutes ago. They must be eating dinner.” “Can you tell them to come pick me up?” “Where you at again?” “Three Rivers. I climbed Homer’s Nose and went off the backside and had to hitchhike to Three Rivers.” “I’m going to work now anyway. I’ll try to catch ‘em before they leave.” “Thanks, Young. I’ll tell you all about my adventure when I get back.” “You mean you’ll tell me how fucking crazy you are?” “Yeah, that too. Hasta luego, Ingemar.” “Later, Johansen.” They had long ago discovered that the name “Ingemar Johansen” somehow captured their teenage fancies and so being friends and willing to share, they each took half the name, although it wasn’t always the same half. An uneasy irritation now nagged Clint, stemming not only from the fact that his ride would arrive some indefinite number of hours in the future and that he had very little to do, but also from a feeling that he had forgotten something, something of significance, something hiding from his tired thoughts and blocking his feeling of triumph. “Food.” He spoke the answer out loud, and an elderly man leaving the store eyed him suspiciously. Clint smiled and shook his head and then, much to his surprise, realized he wasn’t hungry. Despite his physical efforts, he felt no visceral urge to eat, no craving to cut into a charbroiled steak and roll the chunks in his mouth cheek to cheek. Yet, he knew he needed food and entered the store, fingering several crumpled and dusty dollar bills. After grabbing a pack of glazed donuts and a quart of Gatorade, Clint went to the counter but then felt an undercurrent of hostility, as the clerk looked away and rolled his eyes. After two days of hiking, Clint was tired and just wanted to wait outside, but at the same time, he wasn’t eager to ignore the clerk’s rude manner, especially since this middle-aged, pot-bellied, beer-drinking money-grubber would have clutched his chest and keeled over at the mere thought of climbing Homer’s Nose. “Thank you.” Clint spit the words, as most people do when they say, “Fuck you,” and after placing a wad of bills on the counter, the longhaired youth walked away without waiting to collect his change. The clerk started to say something, changed his mind, and mumbled something incoherent, while reaching for the money. Once outside, Clint found a spot to sit, propped his back against the store’s wall, and took off his shoes and socks. His heels were red and raw and decorated with white flaps of dead skin, but there was nothing he could do, except lay them gingerly on the ground and concentrate on the food. He opened the donuts. The first bite was nondescript, a tasteless collection of refined sugar and saturated fat, languishing inside his dirt-dry mouth before sliding down on a less-than-greedy gulp of Gatorade. Nevertheless, after the first donut, Clint’s hunger surfaced like an erotic impulse, the type of sensation that contorts a body, stretches the toes, and makes one writhe in out-of-control need. Clint chomped large portions of glistening, crumbly donuts, barely chewing before swallowing, and after licking his fingers, he reached for both more donuts and Gatorade. Bits of pastry and sugar sat at the corners of his mouth and Gatorade dripped off his chin, but he continued until the box and bottle were empty. After scrounging some scraps that had fallen onto his lap, he enjoyed his last bite and licked his fingers. Then after resting his head against the wall, he closed his eyes and felt faint rumblings in his belly, an uneasiness that grew into true nausea. Taking a few deep breaths, Clint swallowed, and after several minutes, the queasiness began to subside. His legs felt paralyzed, lifeless, and the store’s cedar siding felt surprisingly soft against his back. As he relaxed, his mind drifted down a slow river, floating and rocking listlessly but without sinking. As he drifted and swayed, Clint seemed to be sitting on an empty boat dock, and the only sound was that of water lapping against the moss-slick boards. The sound of a splash made him shudder, but he continued to rock and to see without looking. On the nearby bank, dry grass, scattered boulders, and clusters of scrawny sagebrush sat idly in the sunshine, and not even a bird or squirrel disturbed the stillness. Then the floating and rocking stopped, and Clint opened his eyes and saw the road. From time to time, a Jeep or a pickup rolled by but never too fast, and everything and everyone seemed to be waiting for the night, anticipating a time of cold Budweiser, warm bedding, or both. At last, as the shadows started to lengthen and the store’s customers meandered toward their cars, Clint’s father arrived. “You are a pain-in-the-butt kid. You look like you’re strung out on drugs. I can’t believe you got lost. You grew up in the damn woods. What were you thinking?” His father was irritated but not really angry. “I didn’t get lost, and I’m glad to see you too, Dad.” “If you didn’t get lost, what are you doing here?” “This is where I came out. I knew I was going off the backside of Homer’s, but I saw some incredible country.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but you’re still a pain in the butt. Where’s your car?” “Up the South Fork.” “You mean you walked from there?” “Well, not all the way. I hitchhiked down the road.” “What the hell did you do to your feet?” “I wore some blisters. Big deal.” “Bullshit. Those feet are infected, and it ain’t a big deal to you ‘cause you won’t have to pay the doctor’s bill.” “Look, I’m tired. I just want to get home.” They drove for several moments in silence. “So did you have to cross a river?” “Only two.” “Only two? Sometimes I wonder what you got for brains. Did you even have any food left?” “I didn’t take any food.” The father looked at his son quickly, sighed, shook his head, and just continued to drive. * * * Oftentimes in the days after a woman has a baby, she forgets the pain of labor. She recalls, of course, that it was agonizing in a rational, matter-of-fact sort of way, like a person relating a story that is interesting but no longer of immediate concern. She remembers that it was messy, bloody, and that she felt naked, vulnerable, and even a little ashamed of her cries and weakness, but the eye-popping intensity of the experience is no longer alive. It’s lost amidst the feel and sight of new life wiggling and nursing, nuzzling and crying, so small, so helpless. The pain is simply gone, evicted like a grouchy guest at a dinner party, lost in the kisses, hugs, and proud smiles of her loved ones, in their beaming faces and trickling tears. All tell her how well she did, how brave she was, and how good tomorrow will be. How could she truly remember the pain? It’s over and finished for now, for years, maybe. It’s over until the next pregnancy, until the next baby prepares to leave her womb, until the first hard contraction jolts her memory to life. Only then does she remember, relive, know the fevered intensity of what’s to come. She knows it’s horrendous, but now she knows of the wet, fleshy reward and of her own strength, and nothing, absolutely nothing short of death, can stop her. * * * In an hour, they were in the South Fork canyon, and the sun was sinking toward the horizon, making the draws look dim and forlorn. The dawdling drive and tedium of normal conversation were draining Clint like an indolent sieve, converting surges of adrenaline into the slow flow of everyday worry – tepid water dribbling from a crusty tap. Should I concentrate on the 1,500 or 5,000 meters in track? Do I have the speed for the 1,500? How fast can I go? Do I want to be a star at a small school or challenged at a big one? Which college is best for me? What’s my major? Math? Engineering? English? History? What do I want to do with my life? Who do I want to meet? Will the women be nice? Will they like my long hair? Will their breasts bulge against their tops? Will my bulge impress them? Will they climb mountains with me? Will they be fun? Intelligent? Willing? Putrid and muddy, the questions began to swirl in Clint’s mind, but just as life seemed all too important, just as mountainous heroics were becoming irrelevant, Homer’s Nose became visible, its pinnacle still capturing the sun and glowing in orange prominence above the other mountains. “Stop! Stop! Stop! Will you look at that?” The car stopped. “I was up there. I was up there, god-damn-it. Wooo.” “Pretty impressive.” Clint’s father couldn’t decide whether to be proud of his son’s drive or question his sanity. The car soon rolled on its way, but it was enough. The climb was no longer a dead memory but a living extension of himself. The Peak, the rivers, the mountains, the bushes, and the danger were left behind, but the experience had changed a small part of him, molded him into something new, something different, maybe better, a cougar instead of a housecat, a wolf instead of a dog. Anyone who could do what he did could certainly run a faster mile, score with the women, and choose any job, not just repetitive, brain-numbing work but a career that quickened his pulse and brought new knowledge, new experiences. Of course, in the future, he would climb other mountains that were rockier, more dangerous, and more remote. With raw fingers, he’d cling to cracks, and with sore and scratched arms, he’d pull himself up to the top of some peak, a peak that only he knew. Then while feeling the wind on his face, he would laugh and remember that long ago, he had pushed himself to the edge, to a place where survival and death sit side-by-side, and, somehow, somewhere, on a lofty peak or, perhaps, in a remote and thunderous gorge, he had, for the first time, witnessed the sky, felt the earth’s powder and scuff, and heard the heartbeat of his own life.