Mountain Girl
by Kelle Groom
The lake is held within the mountain as if within hands. Spring – around the lake, flowers the size of poppyseeds and eyelashes bloom. Pink, purple, yellow. All here for the first time. Delicate, watery white pink petals like some softness deep in the body. Vein glint of leaves. A whole tree of light. Pollen washed like yellow paint out onto the sidewalk. In my condo complex, it coats the windows of my car in gold dust.
House numbers on oblong boards are nailed into bark, as if someone can own the tree. The lakefront hidden by the houses of the rich, the castle on sale for seventeen million. Fence after fence. Sometimes from the sidewalk, I can see blue right through house windows. Wall-sized sheets of glass, two and three stories high. The lake blue appearing makes the house seem to disappear. An illusion over the lake.
I’m trying to learn the trees – all the pines: Jeffrey (vanilla resin, biggest pine cones with inward sharp points, brownie crust bark), Ponderosa (reddish bark), Sugar Pine (tallest, long cones, tan bark), Incense-Cedar (lacy). White firs like Christmas trees. Mountain alders with tiny cones. Lupine, a cane of wildflowers. One snow plant scarlet shine with big opening scales, like a small red waxy pineapple.
House numbers on oblong boards are nailed into bark, as if someone can own the tree. The lakefront hidden by the houses of the rich, the castle on sale for seventeen million. Fence after fence. Sometimes from the sidewalk, I can see blue right through house windows. Wall-sized sheets of glass, two and three stories high. The lake blue appearing makes the house seem to disappear. An illusion over the lake.
I’m trying to learn the trees – all the pines: Jeffrey (vanilla resin, biggest pine cones with inward sharp points, brownie crust bark), Ponderosa (reddish bark), Sugar Pine (tallest, long cones, tan bark), Incense-Cedar (lacy). White firs like Christmas trees. Mountain alders with tiny cones. Lupine, a cane of wildflowers. One snow plant scarlet shine with big opening scales, like a small red waxy pineapple.
*
“You’ve fallen in the creek. Now you’re a mountain girl,” June said as we walked to the parking lot after graduation. I’d been explaining why I’d been late to the ceremony at the college where I taught. June was the Chair of English Department. Technically, I hadn’t fallen in the creek. I’d sunk. But I didn’t clarify as June had given me a Heidi image of myself – hair braided, singing in the alpine air. Unrealistic, but I was charmed by the completely unwarranted name. She’d lived on this mountain for over twenty years. In my nine months here, I hadn’t taken one hike. Hadn’t even bought a pair of boots.
The creek I sunk in, Incline, empties into Lake Tahoe. This town, Incline Village, owes its name to the discovery of silver, the Comstock Lode, in 1859. Boom and building of town, mills, bunkhouses, and mines in Virginia City required lumber. So all the trees were cut here – “green gold.” Over 6,000 feet up in the Sierra Mountains, lumber was dropped down in flumes. Fir and pine flew on a water slide. Right into the Washoe Valley. The new Virginia Truckee Railroad carried the lumber to Carson, on to the Comstock. Flume dry now, but you can bike it. Or hike from the flume to Incline Creek. The trees grew back. You can see where the Chinese woodcutters lived.
The creek I sunk in, Incline, empties into Lake Tahoe. This town, Incline Village, owes its name to the discovery of silver, the Comstock Lode, in 1859. Boom and building of town, mills, bunkhouses, and mines in Virginia City required lumber. So all the trees were cut here – “green gold.” Over 6,000 feet up in the Sierra Mountains, lumber was dropped down in flumes. Fir and pine flew on a water slide. Right into the Washoe Valley. The new Virginia Truckee Railroad carried the lumber to Carson, on to the Comstock. Flume dry now, but you can bike it. Or hike from the flume to Incline Creek. The trees grew back. You can see where the Chinese woodcutters lived.
*
I had attempted my first hike at Spooner Lake. Early morning. An off-the-cuff decision. I’d spent the night in South Lake after giving a poetry reading at the community college. With winter finally over, I made my first drive on Highway 28 in late April. But I was still too afraid to drive the twisty hairpin, guardrail-less road in the dark. I’ve been encouraged to drive this road – by June and another faculty colleague Suzanne. Suzanne says she tries to do things that scare her. But I’m not neurologically made for heights. The vista of effervescent blue and snowy mountaintop – the huge expanse of empty air – it seems to call me. To have a pull I fear is stronger that gravity. How do I stay grounded on this narrow road? I read that some people have no filter for the stimuli of the world. That normal, calm, grounded people – who can probably drive this serpentine, boulder-walled road (note frequent signs: “Falling Rock Area”) with perfect ease and enjoyment – select what stimuli to experience. Everything doesn’t come at them at once. The light alone makes me light-headed. I am non-selective. I stop breathing. I remind myself to breathe.
Driving home on the shady forest portion of 28, it’s a relief from the cliffside vertigo I’ve just experienced on Highway 50, and that awaits me up ahead. I love the trees, the woods, the way they protect me from falling into sky, lake. I saw the Spooner Lake sign. Pulled in. Ticket booth boarded up. Empty parking lot. The water seemed to be downwards, somewhere through the trees. Parked. I walked the path through serene trees, found a tall walking stick. I’d brought no change of clothes and still wore my poetry reading outfit: boots with three-inch heels, dark blue fluttery dress, gray denim jacket. Gold snake necklace I’d found in a Vegas Macy’s. Wearing what I fear.
The slope uneven. Signs state, “Bears in the Area.” But I’d seen this sign at my own apartment complex, by the dumpster. There was even a magnet on my condo’s refrigerator: “A Fed Bear is a Dead Bear.” I kept imagining a Federal Bear, a kind of government employee, park official. But it refers to the Three Strikes You’re Out Rule. If a bear comes into town, eats human food from garbage cans, etc, aversion techniques are used. Aversion seems to include loud noises, chasing the bear with dogs – things to help the bear associate civilization with unpleasantness. So he won’t return. If a bear returns three times, it’s a death sentence – the bear is euthanized. But people hike. June hikes in Truckee. Suzanne hikes everywhere. I’m in Nevada, in the Sierras. I have a walking stick. I should hike.
The Marlette Flume that carried lumber to Carson is in here. Early morning is not a time I’m usually awake. I have a Little House on the Prairie early-morning frontier feeling. Sun just rising. I walk a dirt path in the aspen grove, headed down. I want to find the lake. What I don’t know is that this lake has leeches, swimming not recommended. I’ll learn this from a guidebook a month later. I try to imagine that moment, when I throw off my cap sleeved dress, my tights. Bare all to the solitary, pristine lake. Jump in. Skinny dipping in the Sierras. Imagine the moment when I feel the first sting. Suction. Blood pulled from my body by tight fitting slugs. But I won’t know this until I leap from the water and see living black slime feeding off my body. And where? It’s possible I might have had a heart attack right there on the shore, naked, covered in leeches.
But I don’t get that far when I hear a noise. Can’t even see the water yet. A loud snap. Something not bird, not squirrel, not bunny – the creatures I’m okay with. I also recall that very occasionally in the Sierras, one may encounter a mountain lion. On entering this state, maybe at the airport, I could have used a pamphlet: How to Stay Alive in the Wild, or What to Do When Encountering Other Species. Bear Encounter Tips. Mountain Lion Etiquette. I return to my car, make my way home.
Driving home on the shady forest portion of 28, it’s a relief from the cliffside vertigo I’ve just experienced on Highway 50, and that awaits me up ahead. I love the trees, the woods, the way they protect me from falling into sky, lake. I saw the Spooner Lake sign. Pulled in. Ticket booth boarded up. Empty parking lot. The water seemed to be downwards, somewhere through the trees. Parked. I walked the path through serene trees, found a tall walking stick. I’d brought no change of clothes and still wore my poetry reading outfit: boots with three-inch heels, dark blue fluttery dress, gray denim jacket. Gold snake necklace I’d found in a Vegas Macy’s. Wearing what I fear.
The slope uneven. Signs state, “Bears in the Area.” But I’d seen this sign at my own apartment complex, by the dumpster. There was even a magnet on my condo’s refrigerator: “A Fed Bear is a Dead Bear.” I kept imagining a Federal Bear, a kind of government employee, park official. But it refers to the Three Strikes You’re Out Rule. If a bear comes into town, eats human food from garbage cans, etc, aversion techniques are used. Aversion seems to include loud noises, chasing the bear with dogs – things to help the bear associate civilization with unpleasantness. So he won’t return. If a bear returns three times, it’s a death sentence – the bear is euthanized. But people hike. June hikes in Truckee. Suzanne hikes everywhere. I’m in Nevada, in the Sierras. I have a walking stick. I should hike.
The Marlette Flume that carried lumber to Carson is in here. Early morning is not a time I’m usually awake. I have a Little House on the Prairie early-morning frontier feeling. Sun just rising. I walk a dirt path in the aspen grove, headed down. I want to find the lake. What I don’t know is that this lake has leeches, swimming not recommended. I’ll learn this from a guidebook a month later. I try to imagine that moment, when I throw off my cap sleeved dress, my tights. Bare all to the solitary, pristine lake. Jump in. Skinny dipping in the Sierras. Imagine the moment when I feel the first sting. Suction. Blood pulled from my body by tight fitting slugs. But I won’t know this until I leap from the water and see living black slime feeding off my body. And where? It’s possible I might have had a heart attack right there on the shore, naked, covered in leeches.
But I don’t get that far when I hear a noise. Can’t even see the water yet. A loud snap. Something not bird, not squirrel, not bunny – the creatures I’m okay with. I also recall that very occasionally in the Sierras, one may encounter a mountain lion. On entering this state, maybe at the airport, I could have used a pamphlet: How to Stay Alive in the Wild, or What to Do When Encountering Other Species. Bear Encounter Tips. Mountain Lion Etiquette. I return to my car, make my way home.
*
At the hair salon in mid-winter, my stylist complained about the back-up on Mt. Rose Highway. On the hairpin turns thousands and thousands of feet up, sliding on the ice and snow, an SUV driver had panicked. The fall into the lake below just a skid away. The driver simply gave up, froze in place on the narrow road. Stopped. And the cars behind him: bang, bang, bang. My stylist said, “People need to learn to drive on ice on that road.” Yes, yes, yes. Where is that class? Where do you learn? I learned to drive at sea-level, a flat parking lot in Florida. I know rain, hurricanes. The sheen of humidity. Sun so bright, everything turns white. I know the importance of air-conditioning. I don’t know how to drive dervishly around and around a mountain on a sliding surface, vision obscured by snow, in the presence of 100-mile-an-hour wind gusts at mountain top passes that can lift a car into the air. As happened to one of my students, on a trip to Reno for a dress shirt and haircut. His trip began in snowless Incline, but as he drove higher (the only way out of Incline is up, then down, as with the lumber), snow fell, increased. He couldn’t see. Then a gust lifted his car into the air, his companion, who’d had his head down, looked up and saw only air. Screamed, “like a girl,” my student said. Luckily, the guardrail stopped his car. Too afraid to drive back up the mountain that night (and the car damaged), they spent the night in a Reno casino.
Even a pamphlet would help with this: How to Drive Mt. Rose in Blinding Snow. For example, in several turnouts on the highway, there are signs: “Brake Check Area.” What does this mean? Am I checking that I have brakes? What would I be doing on this road without brakes? Reacting to a sign that said, “Snow Tires or Chains Required,” June laughed, said, “Natural selection.” I know my common sense, my sense of direction, my street smarts even – all are in the low percentiles. I still want to live. I need a pamphlet.
Since my abbreviated Spooner Lake hike, I’ve been reading the “Bear Sightings Report.” An electronic map of red, yellow, purple, green pushpins shows that bears have appeared not only on my road, but in my condo complex, on the road to the beach, in the driveways and backyards of the multi-million dollar homes that line the lake. Black bears beating down garage doors, leaving paw prints. Sensing food in garage freezers. “The whole house shook,” one man said. Another bear opened a car door and drank the four-pack of Arizona Tea left on the front seat. A bear climbed the fence of Burnt Cedar Beach where I walked today. The Carson Range, in which the Lake is included, has 200-300 bears. Analyzing the sightings over a three-year period, I find bears most often appear at dawn and dusk, like the sharks at home in Florida. Meal time. Bears seem especially active late at night too, but perhaps less seen as few people are awake. The most useful bear encounter advice I find is Don’t Run. Also, Make Loud Noise. Adult bears range from 200 (“small”) to 700 pounds. I’m pretty sure my impulse would be to run. The sighters always refer to the mother bears as Mama. Mamas and cubs seem to mostly eat leaves, high tail it into the woods. It’s the solitary bears that walk through yards, down the street. One black bear described as walking “like a condo owner” in the Couer du Lac parking lot.
Several years ago, when I lived in Edna St. Vincent Millay’s barn in the Berkshires, I met a bear on the solitary road that led through the woods. After walking down the hill, to the tiny post office at the end of the road, I turned back. Made it nearly halfway, when I saw a medium sized bear up ahead. On the right side of the road. I panicked. The barn was up the hill, on the other side of the bear. If I turned back, there was nowhere to go but the post office, closed on Sunday. I had no phone. Would I just wait at the bottom of the hill until I guessed the bear might be gone? The bear advice at Millay was to Wear Bells. Apparently the worst thing you can do is surprise a bear. I had no bells. The bear disappeared into the green. Maybe clapping would help. I took a step forward. Clapping with great enthusiasm, clapping as I’d never clapped before. As if I’d seen the performance of my life. Palms stinging. Reddening. When I passed the approximate spot I’d seen the bear, there was no bear. I clapped all the way to the barn.
Even a pamphlet would help with this: How to Drive Mt. Rose in Blinding Snow. For example, in several turnouts on the highway, there are signs: “Brake Check Area.” What does this mean? Am I checking that I have brakes? What would I be doing on this road without brakes? Reacting to a sign that said, “Snow Tires or Chains Required,” June laughed, said, “Natural selection.” I know my common sense, my sense of direction, my street smarts even – all are in the low percentiles. I still want to live. I need a pamphlet.
Since my abbreviated Spooner Lake hike, I’ve been reading the “Bear Sightings Report.” An electronic map of red, yellow, purple, green pushpins shows that bears have appeared not only on my road, but in my condo complex, on the road to the beach, in the driveways and backyards of the multi-million dollar homes that line the lake. Black bears beating down garage doors, leaving paw prints. Sensing food in garage freezers. “The whole house shook,” one man said. Another bear opened a car door and drank the four-pack of Arizona Tea left on the front seat. A bear climbed the fence of Burnt Cedar Beach where I walked today. The Carson Range, in which the Lake is included, has 200-300 bears. Analyzing the sightings over a three-year period, I find bears most often appear at dawn and dusk, like the sharks at home in Florida. Meal time. Bears seem especially active late at night too, but perhaps less seen as few people are awake. The most useful bear encounter advice I find is Don’t Run. Also, Make Loud Noise. Adult bears range from 200 (“small”) to 700 pounds. I’m pretty sure my impulse would be to run. The sighters always refer to the mother bears as Mama. Mamas and cubs seem to mostly eat leaves, high tail it into the woods. It’s the solitary bears that walk through yards, down the street. One black bear described as walking “like a condo owner” in the Couer du Lac parking lot.
Several years ago, when I lived in Edna St. Vincent Millay’s barn in the Berkshires, I met a bear on the solitary road that led through the woods. After walking down the hill, to the tiny post office at the end of the road, I turned back. Made it nearly halfway, when I saw a medium sized bear up ahead. On the right side of the road. I panicked. The barn was up the hill, on the other side of the bear. If I turned back, there was nowhere to go but the post office, closed on Sunday. I had no phone. Would I just wait at the bottom of the hill until I guessed the bear might be gone? The bear advice at Millay was to Wear Bells. Apparently the worst thing you can do is surprise a bear. I had no bells. The bear disappeared into the green. Maybe clapping would help. I took a step forward. Clapping with great enthusiasm, clapping as I’d never clapped before. As if I’d seen the performance of my life. Palms stinging. Reddening. When I passed the approximate spot I’d seen the bear, there was no bear. I clapped all the way to the barn.
*
At 10 am, I was almost ready for graduation – dress, jacket, a nice pair of black Ann Klein flats from the thrift store. My gold snake necklace. Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the college, but a cop waves me on, away from the main parking lot entrance. The small lot is full. Cars line the main road, the side roads. I pass about 300 cars, take a side street, and finally find a spot near the Rec Center. I recall someone telling me there’s a path from the Center to the school. A shortcut.
Feeling smart I’ve worn flats, I walk uphill to the Rec Center, take a left toward the tennis courts. A woman approaches. “It’s turned into a beautiful day,” she says. “Yes.” I nod. It is, sunny but ice still in the breeze. “Can you tell me which way to the college?” She points behind me, and up. “The path’s pretty well worn. You’ll cross the creek.” I think she says, “Go past the cars.” But all I see are trees, rocks. Veering left, I hike upwards in my bright blue dry-clean only wrap dress, light pleated jacket with three quarter sleeves. I’ve never worn the jacket before, but figured, it’s graduation. I should dress up. In the woods, I hear a burbling. The creek! Proud of myself for what I consider a tracking instinct, I head toward the sound of moving water.
The creek is about 8-10 feet across. What the woman didn’t mention is that there’s no bridge. Two small logs about the width of a teenage girl’s forearm reach partially across the creek. First one must climb on a Rubik’s cube rock of uneven surfaces with one foot and balance there. Then the left foot is placed on one of the small logs. Then, lift the right foot from the rock and place on the other small log. The logs are in an upside-down Y shape, so, unfortunately, one’s legs are fairly far apart. The logs laid by hikers I think, to help one another across the water. How thoughtful. I feel connected to them, sharing a common path.
My cell phone in hand. Again, I’m impressed with the wisdom of my impulse to put my cell phone in my purse. To fling my purse to the hilly shore of pine needles and dirt on the opposite side of the creek. However, as soon as I place my lovely, left Ann Klein flat on one of the small logs that looks covered in gray eczema, it collapses like cardboard into the creek. Which is surprisingly muddy. A black swampy mud icy cold. High 50s now, but it was in the 30s last night. The mud truly near the temperature of ice. I raise my foot back up in shock. Am ready to retreat when I see my big tan handbag on the opposite shore.
I search the creekside for any better crossing, but it only widens, deepens. Turns into a crevasse. So I return to my logs, my rock. Climb each and all, my shoes riding the logs which sink low in the mud. Taking my feet with them, black mud filling the ivory inner lining of my shoes, coating my heels. I’m used to the ocean, to sand. Yes, it’s wet, but you just brush it off. I can handle this, I can hike up the hill. I see cars through the trees. A cheer rises from beyond them.
Mud is not sand. Mud is now beneath my fingernails, coating my hands. My feet are freezing. My Ann Klein flats are black mud popsicles on my feet. I cannot go forward. I’ll need to throw these black tights away, get another pair of shoes. Wash my hands and feet. I turn back to the creek to go back home and freshen up. But now I have to get across again!
There’s an apartment complex further up the hill. Surely there’s a passageway over the creek. But no, it’s one long line of doors as far as the eye can see. No break in between. I face the water again, throw my purse across. Ride the logs sinking under my weight. Move through mud, climb the stone. Hike through the woods, past the Rec Center, down the hill, down the roadside to my car.
Feeling smart I’ve worn flats, I walk uphill to the Rec Center, take a left toward the tennis courts. A woman approaches. “It’s turned into a beautiful day,” she says. “Yes.” I nod. It is, sunny but ice still in the breeze. “Can you tell me which way to the college?” She points behind me, and up. “The path’s pretty well worn. You’ll cross the creek.” I think she says, “Go past the cars.” But all I see are trees, rocks. Veering left, I hike upwards in my bright blue dry-clean only wrap dress, light pleated jacket with three quarter sleeves. I’ve never worn the jacket before, but figured, it’s graduation. I should dress up. In the woods, I hear a burbling. The creek! Proud of myself for what I consider a tracking instinct, I head toward the sound of moving water.
The creek is about 8-10 feet across. What the woman didn’t mention is that there’s no bridge. Two small logs about the width of a teenage girl’s forearm reach partially across the creek. First one must climb on a Rubik’s cube rock of uneven surfaces with one foot and balance there. Then the left foot is placed on one of the small logs. Then, lift the right foot from the rock and place on the other small log. The logs are in an upside-down Y shape, so, unfortunately, one’s legs are fairly far apart. The logs laid by hikers I think, to help one another across the water. How thoughtful. I feel connected to them, sharing a common path.
My cell phone in hand. Again, I’m impressed with the wisdom of my impulse to put my cell phone in my purse. To fling my purse to the hilly shore of pine needles and dirt on the opposite side of the creek. However, as soon as I place my lovely, left Ann Klein flat on one of the small logs that looks covered in gray eczema, it collapses like cardboard into the creek. Which is surprisingly muddy. A black swampy mud icy cold. High 50s now, but it was in the 30s last night. The mud truly near the temperature of ice. I raise my foot back up in shock. Am ready to retreat when I see my big tan handbag on the opposite shore.
I search the creekside for any better crossing, but it only widens, deepens. Turns into a crevasse. So I return to my logs, my rock. Climb each and all, my shoes riding the logs which sink low in the mud. Taking my feet with them, black mud filling the ivory inner lining of my shoes, coating my heels. I’m used to the ocean, to sand. Yes, it’s wet, but you just brush it off. I can handle this, I can hike up the hill. I see cars through the trees. A cheer rises from beyond them.
Mud is not sand. Mud is now beneath my fingernails, coating my hands. My feet are freezing. My Ann Klein flats are black mud popsicles on my feet. I cannot go forward. I’ll need to throw these black tights away, get another pair of shoes. Wash my hands and feet. I turn back to the creek to go back home and freshen up. But now I have to get across again!
There’s an apartment complex further up the hill. Surely there’s a passageway over the creek. But no, it’s one long line of doors as far as the eye can see. No break in between. I face the water again, throw my purse across. Ride the logs sinking under my weight. Move through mud, climb the stone. Hike through the woods, past the Rec Center, down the hill, down the roadside to my car.
*
I’d had a doctor’s appointment in South Lake during the pre-graduation beach party. On the drive over, I’d been worried that my jeep could slide off the unbarricaded cliffside. On 28’s downward drop, it’s like a water slide with you and your car hugging the rocky mountainside. Follow the curve that careens, then barrels downward with the altitude drop. Or the straight line down will lead right off the mountain, over the tops of pines – perhaps into them – and down into the fantastically scenic turquoise of the lake. Granite boulders studding the water like a western Stonehenge – no guardrail, fence, or wall, not even a traffic cone – just a freefall into air. Like Thelma and Louise in that moment their car hangs parallel in the canyon air, as if they’ll keep driving high above the road.
In the waiting room, two staff members had whispered behind a frosted plastic divider. “She had some disease,” one woman said, “You know, where her ribs turn to stone.” But ribs are already bone – how do they turn to stone? I pictured cement between the ribs. A stone jacket around her. A woman turning to stone.
When my blood tests come back, my doctor reports that my hematocrit is high. It goes up from decreased oxygen, as a result of altitude or sleep apnea, he said. “Do you snore at night?” I don’t snore. Wouldn’t altitude make sense? I mean, we’re on a MOUNTAIN. Apparently high altitude is 8,000 feet. Mt. Rose is 10,000 at the summit. But Incline is just above 6,000. The road to South Lake 7,000 feet. Apparently my body can’t adjust. My constant dizziness is a lack of oxygen. A 2002 study found high altitudes can increase panic attacks. No wonder I worry I might hurtle off the cliff. The body can adjust at most heights, though there is a death zone: 26,000 feet.
On the drive over, I’d passed Zephyr. A house appearing out of trees in the mountainside. All I saw of the house were six dim window panels, blue/green forest inside. At Sand Harbor, the round rocks in the water are clustered, mountains to the left still snow topped. Cave Rock is a high rise rock the size of a multi-storied hotel, tunnel carved through stone. It’s 360 feet high, what’s left of a volcano that erupted three million years ago. The tunnel blasted through it. For the Washoe Indians, it’s so sacred, some chose to travel 72 miles around the lake to reach their destination, rather than enter the tunnel.
Then rock climbers, unaware Cave Rock was a sacred place, climbed it in great numbers, and defaced it with over 300 bolts. No one explained the route to me before I drove it the first time. No one described the tunnel. I have a fear of enclosed places, a terror of parking garages without visible sky. Low ceilings pressing down like a coffin. The tunnel in Boston takes my breath away. As I concentrated on the winding road, mountain to my left, cliff edge to my right, lake below, Cave Rock appeared before me. Nothing but blue sky and then another mountain in the middle of the road, a path cut through.
Even after the tunnel was built, shamans used it to transcend into a spiritual place. It’s a short distance through the rock. An interruption. Though also like being within the center of the earth millions of years ago. A time shift. Tunnel like the aperture of a camera, supplying a maximum of light. On the road, I seem to hang in space; within Cave Rock, in time. Duane Michaels once photographed a man in a tunnel near Grand Central Station. The man stood under a bolt of sunlight from the street above. The man’s buttoned shirt is white, tunnel black, but his face is bright white with a ghostly cloud surrounding his head and shoulders. It was Michaels’ purpose, in photographing “The Illuminated Man,” “…to dissolve into pure light—as if his spiritual energy or aura could be seen.” One of the Washoe shamans, Henry Rupert, entered into a spiritual dimension at Cave Rock. He used his power for healing, “believed all beings contain energy.”
On the cliffside is a low stone wall that looks older, as if meant to keep a horse and buggy from toppling into the lake. It was once thought the lake was bottomless. The beach close to Winnemucca a bit like ocean water – aquamarine further out, then bands of different colored shades, like 1970s Jello brand desserts made in tall Tupperware cups (layers of pudding, jello, foamy mousse). Deeper blues, but close to shore almost a muddy green. Mountains so close. Boulders beside the road. All that work to clear this stony road, all those men lifting. A Flintstones landscape. Clear bright expanse of green to my right, freed of everything else, and then to the right, a little heap of smaller boulders. One giant rock face steeples left. Sky swirls.
I passed the Mont Bleu in the line of casinos at Stateline. Just before crossing from Nevada into California. One of my poetry students said she’d spent five days straight there. Only going outside to buy bottles of champagne and orange juice. The sign said there’s a pool party and a costume pool party. Brad Paisley was expected at the casino across the street. I don’t know who he is. The Entering California sign had yellow flowers, like buttercups.
In the waiting room, two staff members had whispered behind a frosted plastic divider. “She had some disease,” one woman said, “You know, where her ribs turn to stone.” But ribs are already bone – how do they turn to stone? I pictured cement between the ribs. A stone jacket around her. A woman turning to stone.
When my blood tests come back, my doctor reports that my hematocrit is high. It goes up from decreased oxygen, as a result of altitude or sleep apnea, he said. “Do you snore at night?” I don’t snore. Wouldn’t altitude make sense? I mean, we’re on a MOUNTAIN. Apparently high altitude is 8,000 feet. Mt. Rose is 10,000 at the summit. But Incline is just above 6,000. The road to South Lake 7,000 feet. Apparently my body can’t adjust. My constant dizziness is a lack of oxygen. A 2002 study found high altitudes can increase panic attacks. No wonder I worry I might hurtle off the cliff. The body can adjust at most heights, though there is a death zone: 26,000 feet.
On the drive over, I’d passed Zephyr. A house appearing out of trees in the mountainside. All I saw of the house were six dim window panels, blue/green forest inside. At Sand Harbor, the round rocks in the water are clustered, mountains to the left still snow topped. Cave Rock is a high rise rock the size of a multi-storied hotel, tunnel carved through stone. It’s 360 feet high, what’s left of a volcano that erupted three million years ago. The tunnel blasted through it. For the Washoe Indians, it’s so sacred, some chose to travel 72 miles around the lake to reach their destination, rather than enter the tunnel.
Then rock climbers, unaware Cave Rock was a sacred place, climbed it in great numbers, and defaced it with over 300 bolts. No one explained the route to me before I drove it the first time. No one described the tunnel. I have a fear of enclosed places, a terror of parking garages without visible sky. Low ceilings pressing down like a coffin. The tunnel in Boston takes my breath away. As I concentrated on the winding road, mountain to my left, cliff edge to my right, lake below, Cave Rock appeared before me. Nothing but blue sky and then another mountain in the middle of the road, a path cut through.
Even after the tunnel was built, shamans used it to transcend into a spiritual place. It’s a short distance through the rock. An interruption. Though also like being within the center of the earth millions of years ago. A time shift. Tunnel like the aperture of a camera, supplying a maximum of light. On the road, I seem to hang in space; within Cave Rock, in time. Duane Michaels once photographed a man in a tunnel near Grand Central Station. The man stood under a bolt of sunlight from the street above. The man’s buttoned shirt is white, tunnel black, but his face is bright white with a ghostly cloud surrounding his head and shoulders. It was Michaels’ purpose, in photographing “The Illuminated Man,” “…to dissolve into pure light—as if his spiritual energy or aura could be seen.” One of the Washoe shamans, Henry Rupert, entered into a spiritual dimension at Cave Rock. He used his power for healing, “believed all beings contain energy.”
On the cliffside is a low stone wall that looks older, as if meant to keep a horse and buggy from toppling into the lake. It was once thought the lake was bottomless. The beach close to Winnemucca a bit like ocean water – aquamarine further out, then bands of different colored shades, like 1970s Jello brand desserts made in tall Tupperware cups (layers of pudding, jello, foamy mousse). Deeper blues, but close to shore almost a muddy green. Mountains so close. Boulders beside the road. All that work to clear this stony road, all those men lifting. A Flintstones landscape. Clear bright expanse of green to my right, freed of everything else, and then to the right, a little heap of smaller boulders. One giant rock face steeples left. Sky swirls.
I passed the Mont Bleu in the line of casinos at Stateline. Just before crossing from Nevada into California. One of my poetry students said she’d spent five days straight there. Only going outside to buy bottles of champagne and orange juice. The sign said there’s a pool party and a costume pool party. Brad Paisley was expected at the casino across the street. I don’t know who he is. The Entering California sign had yellow flowers, like buttercups.
*
Back home, after sinking into the creek, I scrubbed my feet under hot water in the tub. By 11:30, I’m clean, in new shoes. I’ve driven up a different side street, found a spot to park. Walking toward the tents, I see another student sitting on the wet grass alone. We sit together, clap. “We match,” she says. And we do, in turquoise and black. She’s wearing light blue eyeshadow. Taking off my sunglasses that a taxi driver in New York said made me look as if I was on my way to get high with Lou Reed, I show her the first blue eyeshadow I’ve worn in 20 years.
The faculty are on the dais, students lined up. As each student steps up to get his/her diploma, a woman hugs them. “Who’s that?” I ask. “Oh, it’s the woman in the Registrar’s office.” It’s so homey, I think, and sweet. No one on my university’s staff hugged me at my graduation. A handshake. That’s it. One student, Marcella, turns from her place in line to smile at us. We both wave, arms high, as if she’s about to disembark on a sea voyage.
A little later, another student, Caitlin, asks to take a photo with me and June. June had hugged her, said “Kelle’s here.” And Caitlin’s face had opened up in joy at seeing me. I’d been feeling awkward among the throng of students and families and babies crawling on the grass. I was ready to go, trying to see a possible path through the crowd, to my car. But then Caitlin’s face opened up. She hugged me. A boy took a video of Caitlin, June, and me with her white iPhone. I met her mom, her dad. “She’s a wonderful writer,” I said. Then June turned away, caught up in another conversation, and the crowd started crowding. I was feeling a little speechless, out of place. Caitlin just smiled, hugged me again. My hand perched on her shoulder as if she were a delicate bird. A new creature, just starting out.
The faculty are on the dais, students lined up. As each student steps up to get his/her diploma, a woman hugs them. “Who’s that?” I ask. “Oh, it’s the woman in the Registrar’s office.” It’s so homey, I think, and sweet. No one on my university’s staff hugged me at my graduation. A handshake. That’s it. One student, Marcella, turns from her place in line to smile at us. We both wave, arms high, as if she’s about to disembark on a sea voyage.
A little later, another student, Caitlin, asks to take a photo with me and June. June had hugged her, said “Kelle’s here.” And Caitlin’s face had opened up in joy at seeing me. I’d been feeling awkward among the throng of students and families and babies crawling on the grass. I was ready to go, trying to see a possible path through the crowd, to my car. But then Caitlin’s face opened up. She hugged me. A boy took a video of Caitlin, June, and me with her white iPhone. I met her mom, her dad. “She’s a wonderful writer,” I said. Then June turned away, caught up in another conversation, and the crowd started crowding. I was feeling a little speechless, out of place. Caitlin just smiled, hugged me again. My hand perched on her shoulder as if she were a delicate bird. A new creature, just starting out.