Escape Artist lay kill-switched in the sludge of Lambstone Valley Road while dumbfounded Surtch Pherther wondered how it had simply slipped away.
At a sudden hum down draw, he swiftly stooped to right the ride, and a small rattletrap pickup on accidental slicks squirmed around the bend. It was the balding, ragged dude that had lazy-waved from a slouch in his collapsed driver’s seat on the remoteness side of Threshold Pass.
“Hey, bud, need a hand?”
“Nawww,” Surtch’s voice strained at his bike’s heft, “but thanks, really.”
“So, d’ya know where it goes, if the slop gets worse?”
“I swapped here, went wide, the shoulder sucked my rear, and I fought the shit sideways… Or so it seemed.” He was glad for the full-face obscurity. “Yeah, up through the junipers to a saddle and then down steep ’n’ tight to Kinscore Pass—it’s bound to worsen before it gets any better.”
“Hmmm… Well,” smiling wryly, “I gotta give it a shot. Good luck, bud.”
“Hey, you too, man—you too.”
Fake-adjusting his gear, Surtch discreetly watched Escape Artist’s right mirror for ragged dude’s disappearance, unsteady and sluggish, before quickly remounting to slow-flee that scene of his latest embarrassment.
Aiming left from the right shoulder’s slant to drag him down, over-gassing ’til his ass wagged like a tease or a taunt, and with his feet as outriggers, he muck-touched off ’n’ on the miry mile back to Lambstone’s Y-junction with the gravelly Mochila Trail.
It had been a week of autumn everywhere—cold and damp in the City of Contradictions, snow atop the Westwitness Peaks, and in the remoteness, rain galore and a dusting on its heights—a carpe diem season in a life that Surtch Pherther had lately been striving to live so.
From a Lost Springs pit stop, south he shot on terra seemingly firming up, through a riverbed anciently dammed by lava and recently “haunted by desert fairies”, and then swayed a way into the Wapiti Hills on the floor from a prehistoric lake that happened thirty times in a million years and left soil so wistful for wetness that Surtch thought, I can go on slow and nowhere fast, or stick it swift in a soggy patch and get handlebar-hung or somersault-flung to a fate face-first into scrub and stone…
So, at the broad valley’s head, he pulled aside and shut off his ride, dropped the stand on some tuff and dismounted, grabbed water and snacks and a cheap cheroot, and struck off for some outcrops ’cause, when all else failed, there was always lone wandering, the best companion he’d ever had.
Many say such spaces house spirits of those gone before, and though these places had always enchanted Surtch, he felt he had no right to such thoughts. Not only was he naturally skeptical of claims of singular connection and exclusive communion, for they smacked of charlatanism and of power-lust by the cunning and of those in the know versus the damned if they never get it, but he believed that his legacy precluded his access.
He’d always been uneasy about it, that his race flooded the New World and expanded west and drove tribes from their ancestral domains—tribes that then were seen as savages but since as resourceful dwellers amid severe ‘scapes that offered little for bodies but maybe much for the famished soul.
And though he could only guess why his ancestors had crossed oceans, he knew why they’d trekked west: to flee persecution by their countrymen in this land of religious freedom, persecution for a belief that Surtch had twice or thrice tried—with a sincere heart, with real intent—but failed to embrace, a belief that failed to embrace him.
Many would allege that he hadn’t prayed hard enough or that his character was flawed, but after spending over half his life fitfully trying to cram in that puzzling piece of a confounding creed and racking his brain and wrenching his soul and lacking proof that he was being heard, whispering alone in the dark had become absurd to Surtch, and waiting for something transcendent to reach back, vain.
“My ancestors,” he said at the void, “devout great-granddad whose name I bear, what would you think of me, this non-kindred kin? Would you embrace me, or shun me? Would you be proud, or ashamed?” He ground out the spent cheroot. “No, none of us have to look very hard to feel we don’t belong where we are.”
When he came down from the mount, though the daily ground beneath his feet would remain as fluid as always and as everyone’s, that ancient lake-bed terra had meanwhile firmed up enough for a carefree, late-afternoon ride out of the remoteness—and… And the skin of his face shown.
Surtch couldn’t wear his ancestors’ beliefs—they wouldn’t have been fooled by the poor fit anyway. And he couldn’t bear burdens for his race—no one could for any. Sure, Manifest Destiny might have been rationalization for bad behavior, but in many ways the won West was a good thing.
Besides, from his experience, in his life, it boiled down to the only scripture that had ever made sense to Surtch—to love thy neighbor as thyself. After all: Go back a ways and we’re all from elsewhere. Go back all the way and we’re all from the same place.
I wish I could enlarge your photos, Ry. I’d like to discover details in the vastness. It must have been quite the challenge to survive in what we see today as picturesque scenery.
Your approach to beliefs is similar to mine: trying to be a good person.
And I really like your last words:
‘… Go back a ways and we’re all from elsewhere. Go back all the way and we’re all from the same place…’ If only religious leaders would see it that way…
I believe that my WordPress theme automatically resizes pics, but for my next blog post, I’ll try uploading full size photos. They’ll be automatically resized for the post, but clicking on the images might allow for larger viewing, hopefully.
– – – –
In the mid- to late-1800s, these deserts were known as “Piute Hell” by the white settlers (the Paiute were / are one of the region’s native tribes). Besides natives being aggressive, scarcity of good water was one of the biggest problems for folks travelling through, as few of the mountains have streams or springs, and most of the few water sources are “bad” (highly saline).
Even now, it’s unwise to venture out here without extra food and water: Folks still get lost or have vehicle breakdowns; people (usually alone) still disappear and often aren’t found quickly or ever; and (thankfully, in my opinion) there’s still no cell service in most of these areas.
– – – –
Sonja, it’s the blasted power-hungry (whether they be religious, political, unaffiliated, or a blend of these), those that—for whatever reason—are driven to control others… For the sake of world peace and individual freedoms, the civilized must do more to keep the power-hungry in check.
– – – –
On a side-ish note: Though the last half of last year proved seriously topsy-turvy for me (mostly in good ways), for much of that time I had fragments of this blog post all tossed together like a bad salad, and it was already headed this “not-belonging” direction… Your early November blog post Where is home and how can I get there? (inspired by David Masse’s late October blog post A place to call…) urged it further down that path.
It’s fascinating how stories inspire stories inspire stories… Which supports, all the more, that what we individually say and do can have ripple-effects on the greater culture and the thoughts of others, another reason—I think—to try to be a good person. Goodness (just like evil) can “go viral”, can spread.
Be well, moto-friend. 🙂
A very timely post, Ry. I totally share your philosophy.
It’s funny how timeliness can simply happen, Lynne, without any conscious effort from us…
We like-minded must do our damnedest to radiate good vibes into this troubled, little world of ours. Continue being a force for good out there, moto-friend. 😉
Absolutely correct my friend. This world needs all the good vibes we can muster!
Ry undoing the sins of our ancestors is only possible by not committing similar sins of our own. The damage is often done in the spaces where disparate cultures grind up against each other. In the end, the right way is seeing the humanity we share, and tolerating, with kindness, the disparities in the ways we live our lives.
Your prose seems to travel along a path close to poetry. Sometimes it feels like it will break free and slide into the poem, like your rear wheel losing its grip on the loose pebbles of the wilderness trails you love. But then you manage to skid it back onto the path and pursue the narrative.
Nicely done.
David, in spite of current political, religious, and cultural tensions worldwide, I’m optimistic that harmony will reign someday (but what damage will—not must—occur in the meantime?). The only way to that is as you pointed out, by our “seeing the humanity we share, and tolerating, with kindness, the disparities in the ways we live our lives”.
We must remain open to other cultures, must reach out to each other through our shared interests and by recognizing our shared desires. Let’s sit down and dine with those from different backgrounds; let’s hear their music; let’s listen to their stories; and let’s realize that—in most cases—others want the same things we want: opportunities to provide for themselves and their families; and life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
– – – –
Thank you for your kind words. I do get a kick out of well-turned phrases, whomever they’re by. And in addition to the meanings of words, their rhymes and the rhythms of how they’re strung together can communicate, and contribute equally well to, the descriptions they serve—in this case, a rider happily hopping and bouncing or slipping and sliding along a road or trail.
Thanks for taking a few minutes to ride, er, read along. 😉
Wonderfully written Ry, and I agree wholeheartedly. At times it is very difficult, living here in the Deep South, where racism, bigotry, and, yes, even hate are, unfortunately, alive and well. Somewhat suppressed, but does surface it,s ugly head to make it’s way into normal conversation. A refreshing post to read.
Thank you, Bob. I’m glad that you found this a worthwhile read. The South seems so foreign to me. Of course I learned some of its history in school, but unless one has a personal connection to a place, it usually just seems remote, even if it’s the shared history of one’s nation.
A year or two back, Kathy at toadmama.com included in one of her moto-ride blog posts a photo of old slave houses—the caption, something nonchalant like slave quarters in Virginia. Sure, it was still just remote history, like learning from a textbook, but something about a fellow moto-blogger coming across such a site and casually documenting it… Well, it struck me: That really happened, and evidence remains? I know, it sounds terribly naïve of me.
I think it can be healthy for us to contemplate such things, can connect us with our shared humanity and can remind us about our roles in the greater human drama. As far as I know, none of my ancestors directly confronted the natives, but indirectly?… Yes, my people arrived here through westward expansion, which—for bad and good—is part of our American story, part of our bigger human story.
One of these days, I must experience the South: I want to meet its people and enjoy some southern cooking and leave with impressions to digest for long afterward. Of course, it would have to be done on two wheels. 😉
Great images and a very interesting commentary.
Thank you, Mr. Bones! I took these photos with a Nikon Coolpix point-n-shoot that I replaced with a Panasonic Lumix GX1. I love the DSLR, and I’ve taken some mighty satisfying photos with it, but I miss the Coolpix for its great macro function.
I realized its impressive macro capabilities (in comparison with the stock GX1) only after I’d already given it away. My logic was “ Who needs more than one camera?”, which is kinda like “Who needs more than one motorcycle?”… 😀
As for the commentary, it certainly seems like concerns about individual freedoms and harmony between folks of different persuasions are in the air—a sign of the times whether we like it or not.
Ride safe out there, moto-friend.
Love your work Ry.
The words and pics just blended so well
Thank you, Ghost. I sincerely appreciate your words of encouragement, and I’m so happy that you still keep your eyes on this irregularly updated little blog of mine. 😉
Be well, friend.