Copyright © 2021
by Ralph F. Couey
Throughout our lives, we acquire memories, things that have happened or that we've witnessed, events that have been indelibly stamped in our minds. They are an eclectic mix of magnificence and mortification, that have in so many ways defined the path we've traveled.
Some memories we call up, an moment of purposeful recollection. Others lie dormant, until one day they spontaneously jump out at us, like a crazy housecat, demanding our immediate attention.
This evening, I was at work reading a paper on the USGS website about volcanoes. It was written in heavy scientific jargon, and it was slow going. I took a break and while I was resting my brain, one of those snippets from the past jumped up.
It was the summer of 2002. I had been struggling with multiple issues of job and self-worth. I had completed my second bachelor's degree and had applied for a job with the intelligence community. One of those agencies had responded and I had ridden that particular horse with growing excitement until I received a devastating call that I hadn't made the final cut.
To say I was disappointed utterly fails to define what I felt. Much of that was anger, I now realize, and I stomped around the house for a week or so, making everyone else miserable. Cheryl then stepped in, and with that marvelous insight of being able to read me like a book, said in no uncertain terms that enough was enough. "You get on the motorcycle, go west, and don't come back until you've found your smile."
It took about a week and a half to get everything ready, but on a surprisingly cool July morning, I rolled out of the driveway and departed on a 9-day adventure that was one of the most healing experiences of my life.
I love the west. Always have. I grew up traveling with my Dad as he made the rounds of church reunions during the summer. We went thousands of miles to places I had never seen, but the sights of which would stay with me forever. When I was a teenager, I went to work for a friend of Dad's who owned several cattle ranches in New Mexico and West Texas. That was how I spent my summers, long days of hard work involving horses, cattle, tractors, and miles of barbed-wire fencing. I've never worked harder nor been paid less, but it remains the best job I ever had.
So, as I planned this trip, my route would follow the memories of those days. Leaving Columbia, Missouri, I traveled west, catching US 54 at Wichita, Kansas. The first day ended at Liberal, just inside that state's western edge. The second day took me across the Okla-Tex panhandles through land devastated by the Dust Bowl years, and shows those scars yet today. I entered New Mexico at Clovis, and headed southwest towards Roswell. I took a cutoff south of that town through some really picturesque high plains countryside. I got into the Sacramento Mountains and camped at Mayhill. Day three was White Sands, and some really remote areas south of I-10 towards the southwest border. I spent the night in the fantastic old west town of Tombstone in Arizona, walking the board sidewalks and feeling like a cowboy.
The morning of Day 4, I left Tombstone and headed northwest through Benson, Tucson, and Phoenix. It was well into triple digits, when I stopped at a place to gas up. I was not feeling too good because of the heat, so I bought some Gatorade, pounded two bottles, and filled my reservoir backpack with still more. That saved the trip. Later that day, I started climbing into the mountains north of Phoenix into some way cooler air in Prescott, Sedona, and stopping in Flagstaff at the KOA. Day five was short, a quick run to Cortez, Colorado and a laundry day. After taking a day off the road, I headed north into the Rockies. After the broiling heat of Arizona, the mountains were like a cool drink of water. It was an absolutely beautiful day as I weaved through the tightly twisted mountain roads, thoroughly enjoying myself. That night, I stopped at another KOA, this one in Buena Vista. I was making this trip during a time of historic drought, and my plan to pitch my tent ended when I realized that my aluminum pegs were never going to penetrate the concrete-like ground. I went back to the office and swapped my tent site for a Kamping Kabin, a neat little rustic log structure with a front porch. I unloaded the bike and rode into Buena Vista for dinner. I returned just before sunset and parked the bike right in front of the porch. I had been keeping a journal of my trip, but hadn't made any entries for a couple of days. So, I went out to the front porch, sat on a bench with my feet up on the porch rail, began to write.
The porch, providentially, was facing towards the southwest, which meant I had a front row seat to sunset. As I wrote, I glanced up from time-to time as the sun slid towards the horizon. Just before the sun touched the hilltops, I stopped, put my pen down, and became a spectator.
Dusk is one of my favorite times, the perfect time to think back on the day and the events contained therein. But it wasn't just that day, but the previous six. That part of the world was made to me seen from the back of a horse, or the seat of a motorcycle. The sky, unhindered by a roof, goes on forever. Riding brings to the senses the wonder of nature, the sights, the sounds, the smells of pine and clear, bracing mountain air. The hundreds of miles that had rolled out behind me embraced a lifetime's worth of experiences. I sat there in that chair and watched as the sun disappeared. It had been a warm day, but in the very low humidity, the air cooled rapidly. The bike's engine emitted an occasional "ting" as it gave up its heat. It was so very quiet.
The sky began to darken, and then one, by one, the stars became visible. Having lived in the midwest, in places where the lights of the city drowned out the sky, I always treasured nights in the mountains. The air, clear of haze and smog, seemingly dropped all its barriers between me and the universe. I couldn't tell you if the stars popped out one by one, because they seemed to blossom across the ink-black sky. There was no moon, but the land was gently touched by the silvery starlight. I sat there for awhile, taking in all in. I still had three days left, but somehow I knew this would be that one moment, that one memory that would stay with me.
This evening, that moment popped into my brain, and suddenly I was back there, feeling the cooling air, watching the stars populate the night. It was a moment of incredible peace. These days, life races by at a too-frenetic pace and the time I need to just sit and contemplate the moment of being are so very few and far between. Maybe my brain, seeking one of those moments pulled that moment out of one of those dusty filing cabinets, knowing how much I needed one of those moments.
Or maybe...just maybe...it was my soul.
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