Читать книгу Maine Metaphor: The Green and Blue House - S. Dorman - Страница 12

Driving to the Depot Laundromat yesterday, I looked up at towering segmented concrete stacks: the Papermaker. Massive stacks: three great pillars of warming and pollution. There were one or two more downstream at the Cascade Mill where I’d left Allen minutes before.

While our clothes were washing, I sat in our car and watched the sky surrounding Mt. Forist. On the ride in, Allen had remarked that the sky looked gloomy. I thought it dramatic—distinct masses of cloud, moving, against a background of gray, through gaps between mountains. Clefts and summits were differentiated as rising mists embossed outlines of ridges and slopes, usually more blended together in appearance.

Now here before me—Forist—the mighty double-humped pluton, having its own wisps, like thin shreds of veil moving up its stone front. Between it and Mt. Jasper opposite, I saw the only blue sky, a slit of Canadian blue where stood the beautiful gate. The heat was broken; clear clean weather was moving toward town through the valley west of Tansy Town.

I sat there, fragrant Depot coffee in hand, feeling luxurious . . . not working, just sitting watching that Canadian blue expand and heighten as wind drove shredded clouds through the pass. Above this gap, above its two flanking mountains were dark clouds, also moving. No longer stagnant, our weather would be in motion all day. Each time I came out of the Laundromat, after checking on clothes, the gap was larger, higher. I sat in the car thinking of climbing Mt. Forist. By the time our clothes were done it would be perfect hiking weather; breath and visibility at the top unsullied.

Finally, as I watched, great sheets of golden morning light began moving across the sheer rock face. Light traveled across its tattered cloaking of scattered trees, transforming them to green flame. The blue rift widened to the tops of Forist and Jasper; then the clothes were done, as if on signal.

Twenty minutes later I began climbing the steep rocky road that should lead me atop the pluton and give me, for the first time, its wide view. This stony track, the fireman’s track, was located a mile or two down that highway which ran between the great Forist-Jasper gate, the Beautiful Gate in mountains surrounding Tansy Town.

According to the helpful, round and stolid fireman of two weeks ago, this was originally a logging road from which the trail, a snow-machine trail, would diverge to the left at some unspecified distance up mountain. The logging road would continue on in direction away from the summit and become entangled with other logging roads on the backside of the mountain.

This old road—rough, rock-choked, difficult to tread—was bright with early light. I climbed much of it with a brook for companion, murmuring continuously over mossy rocks in cool shade beside the lighted road. The steepness of mountains is always a surprise to me: as I climbed, my strength seemed to sink back downslope.

I stopped, my vision arrested by a tiny movement on the path. Lying in sun was the blackened carcass of what might have been—for its little bush of tail and one tiny white claw—a chipmunk. The pulsing, or sighing, beneath taut dried skin made me gasp and pull back. The decayed shrunken thing seemed to breathe. Then, through holes in its skin I saw beetles moving, making a dead corpse appear live.

Its appearance of life had been caused by three or four curious looking beetles: two were black with yellow-orange stripes; another with white markings, somewhat longer, winged. Were they scavenging, or laying eggs beneath the dead skin? I could but guess, for I had no inclination to investigate further.

I walked on, wondering over my lack of scientific curiosity and correlating aesthetic desire to leave the thing as is. And my mind took a different turn; I thought of how the “breathing corpse” was analogous to a certain spiritual state: the human soul appearing at first in vibrancy of life, but turning out a kind of manipulative movement without a true, spontaneous and healthy spirit within. Of course: my interest in the carcass, then, was more metaphoric than scientific. Writers are always turning over rocks, peering into holes, tickling the back of someone’s knees, looking for metaphors.

I climbed steeply on. Uncertainty was building as the ascent continued with no sign of divergence . . . So disquieting when an expected course delays its appearance, especially in unfamiliar territory, and on the word of another. The postponement of expectation lengthens my perception of time, making hours of moments, months of days. Have I entered somehow on that tangle of logging roads on the backside of the mountain—missing my turn? Will I miss the wide view, become enmeshed in thickets? The origin of the term “bewilderment” has its kernel in this, being truly a part of wilderness experience. In woodlands, a mind seemingly steadfast and happy, but a moment before, is cast suddenly into disquiet. Have I taken the right course? Do I belong here? Or have I lost my way altogether—already? And writing is like this; or a move from Pennsylvania to Maine.

Delay is over; my ascent seems accomplished because this new trail is almost level, segmented by mud puddles: I hear a splash; look down, see widening ripples, rings. Clouds of silt rising in water suggest the burrowing frogs. An insect lands on the surface. I stand still on the green verge, watching. I would like to see a frog grab a meal; stare hard at the surface, at the bug; then deeper, at the reflection of blue sky. There are the green leaves of trees, the slow majestic drifting of a cloud, white cloud. Then, again, the bug rowing on the surface, the brown liquid of water. No frog. But a few puddles down the long trail . . . finally see a light green frog, limned in yellow.

Now I’m hearing a chain saw working away in the woods on my right. The trail appears to bend back toward the sound. But I don’t want to see the logger; would like to see no one on this high trail. Aloneness of woodland venturing is a valued part of the experience. I envy the logger his working in woods for this reason. He belongs here more than anyone, more than myself. But now the trail bends away again; the saw’s hawing dwindles, ceases. The place is hushed, and I am alone, walking.

On and on. Now, unexpectedly, the trail diverges. Which way to turn? My fireman said nothing of this. The right hand route is wide, rocky, light with sun. It curves away out of sight. The left path is narrow, dark with earth and overhead shade. No sign to guide. Either way. . . .

But now I remember that Mt. Forist is double-headed. Which path would make away from it? Will I come out on the high south summit, or, perhaps, the lower north? Will I make off in a different direction altogether? But on impulse I’m allowing my feet to hurry onto the more mysterious shady path. I look back to remember the shape of this turn. I can always return if this track doesn’t work out (famous last words in the woods?).

Treading forward, on and on. Now sounds of traffic come up to me, traffic of Tansy Town somewhere below. I imagine homes, trees, neighborhoods. And feel encouraged. But at once the path takes a downward trend. And I’m walking on, dissatisfied, disquieted. Don’t want to waste time on a downward trail after a two-hour climb. Thick woods on my right begin rising steeply. I’m sinking and it feels all wrong.

Back at the questionable fork in the road I felt myself to be fairly on top of the mountain. Now it’s all downhill. Ah, but the rewriter is encouraged to see the root “quest” in the questionable word. Our coming to Maine was like this. Allen prayed for the right place to raise our sons, but the arrival in Maine’s Western Mountains was freighted with worry and trouble. It has been difficult to feel this move right. One sensitive son was hazed mercilessly in school; I misinterpreted Yankee insular small town manners. My husband got saw bitten, and then injured his back shifting a battery out of the car. An errant dowell rod in a glue pin factory knocked his vision askew, requiring corrective lenses. Rock slopes in the woodlands rose up around us, obscuring. We sank, bewildered, unable to see the wide view.

On this downhill stretch, I play the game with which I sometimes provoke Allen, while hiking: “If nothing interesting or encouraging turns up—at the next curve we’ll turn back.” I could lead Allen on like that for hours if he’d let me. This stretch will be the turning point of the adventure. Because I’m alone. If the path does not at least level out upon my reaching that patch of lighted grass (snuggled under trees in the curve), I . . . will . . . turn . . . back.

Hurrying on I reach the spot, find a level if curving path. Still slightly bemused I haste onward. Now the trail begins to climb through a high wood of maple scattered here and there with gleaming birches. I find a feeling of spaciousness, unlike the closeted, brushy feel of the woods just traversed. The saw has been absent here many years. Through tall trunks I sense light—I feel light ahead. Sure light of bright clear sky. (Later, while studying the peaks from the city street, I will learn the cause of the dip in my hike: that depression between the two heads of the Pluton.)