LITERATURE
BY
Rodney
Nelson
© Rodney
Nelson 2005
MURREY MOUNTAIN
He
got to the post office in time, two thirty June twelve, to mail
what he had to, coming out met the mayor and they traded a few
words, I’m going up the mountain, in the morning you mean,
no right now to take in the sunset, don’t fall off, can’t
do that, he wanted to hit trailhead at three which would give
him more time than a big dumb old Swede used to need to make the
top, six two and two hundred, not too big, dumb, a good book illustrator
with connections might live where he pleased and no idiot would
have chosen here, old, at fifty-two who knew, he drove through
Flagstaff not minding the whorish bright look of it that a ramada
of evergreen did not help, the high town of logging cattle and
wayward Indian had turned into the city of fastfood microbrew
and bureaucrat and was growing on the thorax of the mountain like
what he would not say, all this change in the twenty years it
had been home to him but he did not mind, soon he got a headon
view of the peaks or edges that remained from when the old volcano
broke down, many times he had driven this road with the same objective,
objective not intent, he could see the summit gray and remote,
the new bifocals worked well, myopia had kept him out of the military
out of painting, he loved color and might have been a scenic aquarelliste,
a Gunnar Widforss of the mountain, and had stuck to pen and ink,
not that he regretted what his art had brought him, income reputation
Arizona, or doubted its quality, an illustrator true enough but
his freelance drawings of mountain minutiae sold and he had even
had a one-man in New York, just that the new specs worked too
well, not many were heading north with him in the midafternoon,
canyon traffic parading back to a crowd of ponderosa and aspen
that ranked the way in a green glister, no one took a right with
him onto the road that went straight at the mountain then up and
few were returning from the heights, he checked the radio but
the second movement of Ludwig’s third was on which would
not do, late spring would become early at the end of the road,
ninety-some-hundred feet, virgin as on the morn of creation Dad
would have said, he was not thinking about parents or Minneapolis
or Gustavus Adolphus College, none of that meant much to a Swede
whom northern Arizona had given a vivider self, he got to the
lot at three o’clock, donned boots and pack and stared up
the mountain, above treeline the fellfield had a richer hue than
he had seen, gray with red in the shadows, mulberry, he had not
looked at it from this point at this hour, at three he would have
been leaving, a glint there on the talus marked the wreck of a
military plane that had hit during the war, crew incinerated,
the mountain had them and kept what it had, in October he had
left the summit knob wondering would he be back, not wanted to
start down, to quit the rocks where part of him seemed to remain,
that was the last climb he had done and now he would prove the
omen wrong, one reason of two for coming, the mountain waited
in gray with dark red, Nuvatekiaovi or Dookdoosliid or San Francisco,
mulberry, no he thought mulberry mountain suggested a thicketed
knoll in the Minnesota morn of creation not the hard mountain
that had part of him, it was beckoning now, he locked his key
in the van and set out on the new trail that crossed a ski run,
fake meadow but with skyrocket and penstemon glowing, and tunneled
into pungent dark doug fir, the switchbacks were long, would not
tax him, in the seventies he had used a route through the bowl
canyon up to the saddle and had wanted to today but could not
take the chance, too acute, pack too heavy though he had not stuck
many items in, all he had to do was reach the top so the trail
it would be, stride-and-breath coordination would motor him, two-in
two-out, inin outout inin outout, the sweet thin air cut into
his blood, he felt strong, the pains were no worse, he would go
to one-in two-out when the tough climbing began, no need to worry,
he had known he would see returning trippers and have to nod,
the wages of walking in the mainstream, that one or more would
recognize and talk to him and at ten-thousand feet where the doug
yielded to spruce and bristlecone he ran into someone who taught
with Jenn at the yew and would not have heard, she did not talk,
going partway the man asked, nah the summit, at this hour huh,
I want to catch sundown, hope you got a flashlight, I know the
terrain am expecting the moon too, say hi to her, both of them
moved on and he thought of Jenn who had not been home when he
left, a woman quiet and intact, him and students to tend to, their
big house, he could have written a note, the trail was nearing
treeline in full sun opening the view to the west and he needed
a break, did not dare lose rhythm, went to inoutout early as he
had not done in October, shortened stride for the pull through
krummholz, the treachery of ash-dirt, legs were okay were not
everything, soon he would have a pinch of that honied granola,
nutcrackers were racketing below him, inoutinout he got to the
tundra the range of unique senecio and the drawf shrew at twelve
thousand, the saddle, too tired to sit or see what lay to the
east, the mountain’s green cavity Sunset cone the Painted
Desert, so weak to the marrow he had not been yet he had made
it, one click north and six-hundred feet up on the rocks would
get him there and now he took water and ate in pledge, had to,
a returnee told him no one was at the summit which meant luck,
and audience would not have done, he had not worn a watch, the
sun read six, three damn hours he had been at it and would need
more of that luck to reach the top in time, granola kicking in
he resumed the trek inoutinout, he used to speed here, legs were
not okay were everything, would go at a crawl if he had to but
not stop, in eighty-two he had done Shasta in a day with crampons
and ice ax and gotten so weary that he the man had ceased to be,
some unknown working animal had taken over, let him survive, it
had not been unpleasant and he wished that thing would come to
him now, just to dark, the trail kept high on the ridge, vulcanian
rock burned again in late sun, the groundsel he had drawn would
bloom in a week, he had drawn the human world for pay only, nature
for love, any sane hiker would have brought a flashlight not that
he needed one, knew dark would not catch him short of the summit,
had just a knob or two ahead then would train bifocals on the
view, he did not want to look until, could not, set words to the
rhythm, andupandup, none of him was okay, he even sweat sick,
no need to worry though, he was a booster animal with the job
of getting to the top, the one onetime function, insects were
working late in unwonted windlessness, I’m here he said
to them to the rude hummock where he had seemed to leave a part
of himself, the hurting rhythm went on as if that animal did not
know he had come to the summit then the man knew, son nephew husband
artist, and his eyes got wet, could a dumb old Swede weep for
joy, he had surmounted Nuvatekiaovi Dookdoosliid San Francisco
and more, when you get to the summit keep climbing a Zen monk
had written which he meant in a way to do but not in the rock-ring
windbreak that pilgrims had erected, they had messed it enough,
no he would lodge twenty yards beyond, had not the strength to
walk there, managed to, dropped what remained of him on the ash-dirt,
now he felt good, rest of it would be easier than watching television,
he took out the pint of Irish whiskey that had accounted for some
of the weight, uisce beathadh another monk had written, looked
at the beginning sunset through it and without it then drank,
the peaks of Kendrick Sitgreaves and Bill Williams were isled
in a bay of air and light glanced toward him on its surface and
he wanted to swim west like a bird, he had come to Arizona in
time to enjoy its uninhabited parts, humanity would soon infect
the whole, he did not mind, infection had to have its moment and
would not stay, the new specs did work, he could not have drawn
or painted this, around him the rock went gold with dark red in
the shadows, mulberry would not do, he had to drink again of the
water of life that made him not so weak and hurt, wished he had
had it growing up in that nondrinking nonsmoking Minnesota home,
in the Swedish-Lutheran haven of Gustavus Adolphus where he had
acted in a Ben Jonson play, murrey French hat murrey French hat
he said remembering dialogue, thought of Chicago the commercial-art
job then Jenn Arizona and what one had to term success, the sun
and the whiskey were going down, he could have used more of them
and of time yet knew he had had sufficient, murrey was mulberry,
he had looked up words in Jonson, nothing else for a dumb young
Swede to do, now the old one had to leave, blood test had shown
cancer, inoperable metastasizing you got a few months the medicos
had told him, he was sparing everyone the cost and him the hell,
French hat murrey mountain, Jenn and his attorney would have the
letters tomorrow, she would be sad agree would not mind, I’m
going to make you even murrier he said removing the handgun that
had accounted for most of the pack’s weight, took the muzzle
of it in his
Rodney
Nelson
© Rodney
Nelson 2005
Rodney Nelson was in though not of the San Francisco hippie scene
in 1965-72. Much of his narrative work adverts to all that. He
is no stranger to print. Of late this old, established unknown
writer seems to have found new life in the ezines. (His style
has been referred to as "prose narrative poetry." .
. .)
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