ruins at Two Wheels To There

A Century Cold and “All the Time in the World” – 2011.08.13(a)

Published on April 12, 2015 by Ry Austin 7 Comments

Leaning aloft through banked sweepers known just to them, cliff swallows skillfully, thrillfully swooped about the spacious kilns…

Surtch Pherther had tiptoed over the threshold, through the inner dimness, and–opposite the archway, five feet high, and below the loading window, fifteen above–settled to the cool, earth floor and against the thick, stone wall still charred from the kiln’s last firing over a century back.

Yes, they were cold, for over a hundred years and nightly since: thirty-six-thousand-five-hundred plus and counting. Necessarily stout, they easily trap the small hours chill that’s regular for their near-prairie setting and greedily hold it through even the hottest, August day.

As Surtch held still, the flighty dwellers began to return, swooshing in and then circling the dome-cone ceiling once, twice, thrice–the echoes of their wingbeats, amplified by the odd acoustics, sprinkling all around. At last alighting in their little, mud cups–removed from ground threats and sheltered from the terrain’s frequent tempests–they’d either nestle out of sight, or rest their colorful heads abrim to peep at goings-on below….

It had been 15 years since a youngish self of his had first, and last, seen the Tumen Creek kilns, while taking the long way home from a camping weekend with his kin. The curious, middle-of-nowhere monoliths were a surprise to him and his folks and remained a mystery to them for months thereafter. In the years since, the state had fenced out free-rangers, laid a footbridge over a deep ditch, placed a picnic table and info boards, and begun masonry restoration.

Surtch thought it a shame it had taken so long for them to be deemed worth preserving. Yet it was akin to the usual fate of the great, structures, societies, and souls alike: subject to history’s glacial-pace consideration–its eyes ever-focused on the fuzzy future, its mind ever-appraising the distant past.

Once-upon-a-time, when many were plagued with gold fever, the Wild West was plentiful with such kilns, used for smoldering wood into a hotter-, cleaner-, slower-burning fuel for forges and smelters. Yet for the Italian immigrants’ pride, sweat, and skills that went into their construction, the productive lives of most kilns were short–for mining busts and the advent of the transcontinental railroad, of course, but chiefly for their own appetites: Over a mere thirteen days, a 30 foot by 30 foot kiln could reduce about 30 cords (3,840 cubic feet of wood) to a quarter of its bulk as charcoal.

As folks in ranges west laid claim to prospective mother-lodes, and in the nearby Cairn Mountains to hundreds of acres of forest, Tumen Creek and most other Wild West towns laid claim to notorious outlaws and notable frontiers-people such as Butch Cassidy and Calamity Jane.

Now, on a rise overlooking the site and its wild cemetery, Surtch envisioned a host of happy ghosts and contemplated cliff swallows, grassland critters, the constant breeze, and the only enduring symbols of Tumen’s most noteworthy claim: about two-dozen gravestones, mostly of infants, children, and mothers (were and were to have been). Though it was the typical tragedy for towns of its type and time, to them it was just life–life unjust.

By slab, Tumen Creek was a patch past a hundred miles from the City of Contradictions, but by Surtch’s mid-morning route over Harbinger Pass and by South Morgan Reservoir and through quaint Smithton, up Calbon Creek and over its dirt saddle head, across West Cairn Road and past Myers Reservoir, it was… It was… It was… Who knew? It was more, or it was less–and that more or less didn’t matter.

Though the two modes of transportation are about getting there, each arrives at it differently: Automobiles embody the “there” of physical destinations and map pins and switching off the key; and motorcycles, as Surtch further welcomed with every outing, embrace the “getting” of thrills on tread-testing turns and the quest for oneself on that journey from point A to B-b-b-beyond…

Back at Escape Artist, he donned his gear, threw his leg over, and gazed east at a ridge-cresting road he’d never been on. It was already a few hours past noon, but it was a Saturday in August, sure to be long with summer light and warmth.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” thought Surtch, “all the time in the world…”

There’s Salt in the Water – 2011.06.15

Published on February 13, 2015 by Ry Austin Leave a Comment

He fled work at five. He ate bulgogi and banchan, spicy tofu soup, and crunchy cooked rice. He rode to where the Lake Termina Funfair is long gone, where Grandad as a lad played Swing.

Deep-stepping dry sand and parting reeds, stalked by a ghost, he passed remnants… ruins… wreckage… rubble… residue… dust…

Through fly swarms he forged, and footprinted damp sand, and he reminisced, in his bygone childhood, being Grandad’s shadow.

Shore others jigged and tagged, touched and held, stared out at nothing, and gazed into others’ eyes. Shore others far off. Others.

Countless gulls were careful on the ground, watchful from encrusted pilings, and carefree aloft, and he regretted, as a stupid kid for pals, once mocking Grandad’s limp.

To the water’s edge, toward the setting sun, he went, and toed the toe of the surf and eyed the eye of the glare, and he teared up for never apologizing.

Yet it wasn’t about that, or just that, but everything, from forever, even before him, and Lake Termina was too shallow and small to absorb Surtch Pherther’s deepest desire…

It doubtless would return the body to shore.

Disarmed in Doom Canyon – 2010.09.18

Published on February 13, 2015 by Ry Austin Leave a Comment

Surtch Pherther pulled to the dirt road’s edge, switched off the ignition, and listened. Doom Canyon behind him was quiet. He lowered the stand, dismounted, shed his gear, and crept back to the wash… Still nothing.

Back at the bike, he popped the top case and grabbed the Glock he’d bought when things got sketchy after a meth dealing ex-con moved in next door. He undid his belt, forced it, with the aid of his knife, through the cross-draw holster, and re-belted. Though he unstrapped the gun, he stopped short of racking its slide to chamber a round.

After listening again, he geared up, mounted up, kicked up the stand, started Escape Artist, and rolled to a swap-spot. Then, at low throttle, he crossed the wash and entered Doom’s mouth, rounding the curve to the flat where the broken-down trashed Blazer sat. The man emerged as Surtch approached along the road’s far edge and stopped several yards back.

“Okay,” Surtch said abruptly, “I’ll do it. What did you say your name is?”

“Brad.”

“And your friend’s?” Surtch didn’t care that the man saw the pistol: The remoteness draws outcasts and outlaws and can be ruthless with the reckless. He had to dominate.

“Floyd… Just around the next bend.”

“Okay.” Surtch watched the mirror until he was out of sight. He was puzzled: On his first approach, the man said he’d been there for a day and a half. Yet he hadn’t walked the mere bit of a mile to meet his friend. Yeah, he’d mumbled something about bad knees, but nearly forty hours broken-down in the remoteness?…

Opting to continue on foot, Surtch took a short spur road to a stash spot for his bike and gear. It was a dead end, sure, but so was the main. In fact, with Blazer man below, Doom was as good as dead at both ends. Walking back on the spur, then up the main, he was nearing the drop to another wash crossing when two large dogs suddenly appeared, barking and charging. He went for his gun, but held off drawing. They bashed him repeatedly as held his hands above their nipping. “Go! Go on! Stay away!” He was worried that they might change upon knocking him down, might get fierce.

Post-scuffle, the grumbling dogs led Surtch across the wash, where the road got thinly overgrown. Crossing an opening in a poor fence, he entered a clearing with a small camp trailer at its head. “Floyd? Hello, Floyd?” No one answered. A fire ring, a lawn-table and -chairs, tiki torches, a grill, and some wind chimes and colorful twisters dangling from low limbs were well-placed and well-kept. He continued calling Floyd’s name as he cautiously approached the trailer’s open door. Inside, a man in a Hawaiian shirt was combing back his gray hair before a mirror.

“Hello, Floyd?”

“Howdy. What can I do for ya’?” asked the man, stepping casually to the doorway.

“Riding up the canyon, I encountered Brad. His truck broke down on the flat near the old bin.”

“Well, he’s mighty lucky you came along. I’ll be right there to lend him a hand.”

“I’ll tell him. You have a good day, Floyd.”

“Be safe out there, kid.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

The dogs quietly escorted Surtch back to the road. He’d forgotten about the pistol.

From Ruins to Ruined – 2009.10.31

Published on February 13, 2015 by Ry Austin 2 Comments

There was a smother of dust–Surtch Pherther could taste it. There was a low idle and a rhythmic click… click… click… And there was intense, sharp, dull, sharp, dull throbbing in his right leg. Yet somehow he managed to stand, weighting left, favoring right. Through hazes of mind and dust, he gazed back along the dirt road. At about three yards lay the right pannier, its immobilizer hyperextended. At his feet lay Escape Artist, just weeks old.

Gingerly, he began trying to “walk off” the severe pain that was centered in his knee and was surging up and down from there. Luckily, no bones were broken. What remained concerning was a coinciding quivering weakness–his knee threatened to give at any moment. And, of course, that annoying click… click… click…

“Shit!” Suddenly realizing that Escape Artist was still running, its rear wheel off the ground and turning, he hobbled over and hit the kill switch.

Surtch began inventorying the physical pieces and trying to collect the mental ones, to assemble the puzzle of the incident: There was his downed bike and its dumped pannier, the desolate road in the remoteness, the throbbing in his leg… And scattered in the pale dust around him was what looked like a small fortune of brown coins; against Escape Artist’s bright yellow, what appeared to be drops of crimson paint; and dripping from his face, what certainly was blood.

He knelt with difficulty, removed his thin leather gloves and crooked half shell (his full face helmet was back ordered), and inspected himself in the mirror. Blood was smeared across his mouth, chin, and right cheek and was trickling from his nose. With a left hand pinch, he stanched the flow, and with his right hand, fumbled through the attached pannier’s tossed contents for tissue to wad. He then limped out to the dumped pannier and, with his free hand, carry-dragged it back to the scene. He cleaned his face with dabs from his canteen.

Surtch had rounded the south end of Lost Springs Peaks en route to Kinscore Pass and had become lulled by the gentle bounding and dodging of the road–of course, the throttle might have creeped a bit too. Cresting a rise, he’d seen a sharp turn ahead and a small washout between. The next thing he’d known was the dust, the clicks, and throbbing pain. He must have panicked and grabbed the front brake. As for the bloody nose, he could only guess that he’d punched himself when his elbow hit the ground upon his going down.

He righted Escape Artist–tweaked handlebars, cracked fender, scraped side, and all–and rehung the pannier, securing the mangled immobilizer with “just in case” toeclip straps he’d packed with him.

Surtch’s motorcycling maiden voyage into the remoteness had begun well: He’d roller-coasted the Wapiti Hills of golden bunch grasses, late-blooming sagebrush, and humble junipers, and had continued around to the west side of Barrel Mountain toward a spring of the same name. He’d found the map-marked ruins he’d gone seeking, and though merely concrete foundations and slabs, they were mysterious installations in the middle of nowhere, without clues to indicate their purpose. He had wandered around, kicked through settlement debris typical of such sites, and eaten some snacks before mounting up and returning via the same Wapiti Hills roller coaster.

Sure, his leg was throbbing something fierce, but it would heal; Escape Artist was tweaked and cracked and scraped, but it could be repaired; and his pride was injured, but he was old enough to know that pride is just vanity, skin deep. It was his wounded confidence that worried Surtch. For that can act like a repressed memory, can embed, can become hard like a stone, can surface later, and can reopen and get infected. Surtch knew all too well that wounded confidence can corrupt.

Yeah, the day had begun well.