5/13

I exit my car after reversing onto the small dirt pad off road by the trailhead.  I take a moment to criticize the angle in which I parked, debating whether if I pull out and squeeze right a little more another car could fit in.  

When I finally turn towards the trunk to retrieve my pack and boots I notice an old man standing in front of a pick-up truck parked a couple hundred feet up the road on another small pad.  He stands tall, with his hands in his pockets, big grey beard hanging from his wrinkled face.  

He’s staring at me.  Something I find unnerving, so I raise a hand and nod my head to him.  A friendly greeting.  Gesture of good nature.  He doesn’t take notice though.  Or doesn’t show it.  Just keeps staring.  

I decide to let it go and continue to the truck of my car.  Tie on my boots. Strap on my pack.  I close the tailgate and turn around.

Same posture.  Same cold stare looking at me.  

A boldness takes over and I find myself walking in his direction though the trailhead is in the opposite.  I try to make my gait as casual as possible.  Like I’ve been walking this dirt road for miles.  Not a care in the world.

Before I know it I’m standing before him.  His beard looks like it weighs a ton and his eyes feel like I’m peering over the edge of a cliff.  I open my mouth to speak but can’t really think of a proper place for words.  

Then a twig cracks as a woman emerges from the tree line with a medium sized mutt.  As I turn my attention to her, I realize that he does the same, walking towards her with open arms, they join warmly with a long kiss as the dog barks at a playful chipmunk, and I wonder whether I truly exist at all.

5/12

I’m hiking up the side of a mountain in the Olympic National Park on a narrow exposed ridge.  As I hunch forward with each step, sucking air into my face as effectively as I can, amazed that my heart has the ability to beat so deafeningly, I understand what the sign at the trailhead meant when it described the incline as “steep” with a “thirty five percent grade.”  It dawns on me that I am not as prepared as intended.  This is awful.

But as I’m pressing forward, trying to keep balance, making sure not to slide down the drop to my left, I hear something ahead of me.  A familiar rustle.  Footsteps.

I look up from my boots to see a small Asian lady coming down the trail from up ahead.  She ambles along quite quickly, with trekking poles feeling the way before her feet, she arrives in front of me faster than I anticipated and I take the opportunity to stand aside on the ledge of the trail for a break, which surprises her.  She lets out a pleased gasp and smiles at me from behind the bug net draped off the brim of her hat.  Then she looks past me, down the trail, and back to my eyes.  “Ah,” she says, “you are alone, as well.”  And there’s a warmth to her grin, a knowing ease, a settled contentment that makes me want to drop before her white sneakers in tears. Let her know how truly alone I am while hugging her ankles.  Let her know the mistakes I’ve made and relations I’ve squandered.  Let her know how off path I’ve truly gone.

But I just smile, and nod my head.  “Yes,” I say, “alone.”  And let her pass me by to continue my journey.  

5/10

Her name is Kelly and she’s a bartender at Wally’s Seafood on the waterfront. She bikes to work most days, a short ride, as she lives just down the street in one of the oldest houses on the block.  Bright pink rhododendrons, which she is quite proud of, adorn the small garden in her front yard.

She points them out to me from the rear patio at the restaurant over looking the bay.

“Here, put my sunglasses on; it’ll help you see them.”  She carefully slips the sunglasses that were balanced on her head around my ears and onto the bridge of my nose.  The graze of her cold fingers sends shivers down my sweaty back.

I look towards her house, into the sun.  The burst of vibrant flora against the otherwise bland stretch of green grass and white worn houses is refreshing.  I feign a deep interest, complimenting and admiring, just to keep her glasses on me a little longer.  But just as casually as she placed them on, she removes them, and moves on to the next guest.  Pointing to her front yard.  And placing her glasses on others’ faces.