Part I.

A two-cylinder ATV rattles down a fire road as the Kid peeks behind his left shoulder to inspect the carcass shifting in the plastic utility trailer. Easing up on the throttle around the curves means safer acceleration on the straightaways. Although offering a broad dome of privacy the sky is only a peripheral afterthought as he concentrates on his destination.

           It’s always cooler in the canyons.

Flashing white primaries Phainopeplas sally from bug to branch as their mechanical foil travels under pale dry foliage. With a trailing echo, fine dust jettisons the rubber tires in a talcum cloud and a fetid release from his lifeless companion mixes with the subtle herbaceous pull of the oaken understory. An olfactory reverie only disturbed by the occasional wave of gasoline.

          Who can see me now that I’m alone? It’s only me. I only exist in my own mind and through the eyes and memories of others. But I have a job to do. The smell of this thing is putrid but the way it splits open to reveal viscera and the way the air pockets suck in instead of pop out. For now my hands are dry and they securely grip the throttle of this unpredictable machine.

Back at the cabin there is actually a girl who once worked on Nantucket. That aside she is tall and thin with short blond hair but her collection of parts merely approaches homely. Neither party is interested. They flirt, as practice, but understand with a pang of self-loathing and boredom that nothing will ever happen. Regardless there is something that calls on them to perform. Tedious enough but out here you get what you can.

There are others in the group but today the Kid will make the delivery alone. Safely cruising now at thirty miles per hour the warm sun inches down the western horizon magnifying the cracks and sinew grooved within the bark of Quercus Lobata. He wishes he could stop and stand next to those grooves. Look at them as a student looks at her fingernail under a microscope. If he could see just a little more.

Yesterday he was over on the east side of Bittercreek where the Black Mountains meet the Ibex Dunes. Biblical as it were the dunes were just sand and the mountains were just hills. The waves of golden invasive grass swayed with the wind and the hypnotic ruins of a pointless barn delayed his progress yet again. Case in point a few weeks back he was sitting on a couch thumbing through an old edition of National Geographic. Year after year he would visit another living space that housed a collection of these faded relics. Be it motels, beach houses, or basements, everybody and their mom apparently felt obliged to horde these things. Perhaps for the sole benefit of never having to read them. This was, after all, a civilized society made up of scholars and secular anthropologists. But instead of angrily flipping through per the usual, he came to a dead stop on Christina’s World.

Back at Bittercreek less than twenty hours ago he witnessed a similar grassy composition and the painting stopped him once again. The paralysis of the figure in the foreground suggested various outcomes. Would she remain in helpless repose until eventual rescue or would force of will eventually win the day? Or might she submit to the moment of peace only sustained by her death? As it was in the painting it was with the Kid. But instead of Pennsylvania Dutch country, his world was Black Mountains and Ibex Dunes. And as he had use of both legs, instead of death there was only pause. Billions of years collapsed as his gaze fell upon the broken barn and the pores on his forearms constricted with the twilight breeze. He figured those years might as well tick by again in the space of an instant.

Now on four wheels on the other side of this federally protected land, these admittedly non-ancient oaks are inviting him to slow down again. Not now, the job is a job. If he wants to get out of here in one piece this procession of daily events must continue unabated until the agreed upon date.

With halting gurgles his vehicle leaps forward along switchbacks lowering through the canyon. Machine and rock protect as temporary womb from the miles of wilderness between himself and the cabin. And as the correct gear locks in it rewards like a rush of nicotine announced from within a crackling chamber. Fleeting moments of a job well done and a renewal of objectives.

          Now which of these pictures with evasive maneuvers is the safest and most effective? Is it the first one where the rider accelerates around the falling boulder? The second where the rider slams on the brakes? Or perhaps the third where the rider finding himself ill accustomed to the rigors of the road attempts a rolling dismount? Never mind that now, there is no boulder and you’re about 15 minutes out and this is no time for games. Concentrate on the task at hand. You’ve done this many times, so why should this time be any different? It’s not any different, but did you ever think that maybe it’d be nice to be somewhere else right now? I mean for christ sake it’s the middle of the goddamn summer. Last I heard the Cubbies weren’t doing so bad.

And at the suggestion of the summer classic he remembers. He sees the stitches and the rotation and the release point. Then the waiting. The nerves in his legs and stomach will subside as he begins the spiraling torso down through the femurs to the pivot of his right foot. It’s coming. Think about your hands and the shifting weight of the barrel. Keep your head down with your eyes locked then shift your weight into the ball. With your hands tight and inside you explode into the give of the red and white flesh and send the fucker screaming the other way. You can run now. You can watch. They can all watch, and depending on where it lands you can go all the way home or at least be on your way.

          First time in Hopper. Better be on the lookout. Where is that rock cairn they were telling me about? Should be getting close. There? No. Too fast!

The arc of the machine can only handle so much speed as it attempts to successfully switch directions. The angle of the four wheels knows you want cooperation. But it is, after all, a victim of physics. Driving on the correct side of the road makes no difference now, so the Kid anticipates the g force and tries to alter his turn around the curve from the usual 90-degree hangman to what he hopes he can accomplish with an upper-case C. Moving into the curve he slams on the downshift, stands up, and moves all his weight down and to the right as his fingertips grip furiously at the handles and his ass cheeks plead for friction with the road.

          If I can pull this off at least the brunt of the weight won’t collapse on top of me pinning my legs. Just like when I was T-boned by that small truck, somehow my legs always seem to make it unscathed. Pull! Ok.

He sees it after recovering post revolution from his graceless exit. He sees the face of his partner, suggesting a deal, as it’s head skips above the rim of the flailing trailer as the lower half remains glued in place. Yet once removed from line of sight the entire corpse does indeed find itself expunged along a most random trajectory. However, in the meantime, that deal is made. A deal offered in the instant of maxillofacial surprise, contradictory if judged by mandibular rage paired with optometric charm.

          Hey there. We’ve been together for a little while now and I’ve always done what you’ve asked of me. Yes I’ve had my problems what with my leakage and cumbersome weight only magnified by the fact that I’m stone deaf. But now I’ve got a real challenge for you buddy boy. If you want to get out of here and understand what this is all about, come find me!

Part II.

Earlier as in earlier in the Kid’s life he learned from his Grandfather how to correctly look at turtles. Grampa kept turtles in his religious garden; garden variety creatures kept in the backyards of any number of Midwest craftsman’s. He also kept the requisite Francis of Assisi but had enough restraint to keep just one virgin. Some turtles have shells that mimic their environment so they can blend in to avoid predators and others have structural morphology that only females can see in order to judge sexual fitness. Stepping on a turtle’s shell was considered bad luck back in the old country where they were mired in perpetual holy war about which the Kid knew nothing and Grampa mostly ignored. Turtles also make good soup but they taste worse than chicken unless you season them with garlic, and you never want to eat the head as the brackish taste proves overwhelming.

Grampa is gone and sagebrush is fragrant in the late afternoon light as it dapples the spiny basic green of coyote bush and the asparagus like spears of chamise. Southern facing chaparral is always hot and thick with the threat of rattle snakes and spiny whitethorn, but you can always count on the good smell and clear line of sight. Both seemingly necessary as the Kid begins his ascent back up to the road. After tying rope around the legs of his hundred-pound comrade, orange monkey flower offers a moment of reprieve and the rare chance to witness the dramatic speed of botanical movement in real time, as opposed to the time-lapse of a junior high science video. His breath recovered and wounds minor he tightly wraps the nylon rope, letting the fibrous tension cut into the flesh between neck and acromial nob. With branded rubber boot heals most of his slow locomotive success springs from deep within his quadriceps. As he is without the strength of a giant nor the ingenuity of an Italian, his all-terrain vehicle is a total loss, at least for now.

          So, you finally made it down here with the rest of us bottom feeders didn’t ya buddy boy? Pretty goddamn hot ain’t it?

          Well, yeah it’s hot but we need to get back up there and get you to your destination so they don’t start worrying. And the bottom feeder thing. I’m above you guys and I always have been. And at least I know when to call it a day.

Ravens croak and a gang of four glides playfully in the thermals as they make their first considerations about the day’s last roost.

          Whattya mean call it a day? I’ve been out here for years providing sustenance to these mugs who can’t seem to take care of themselves for shit anymore. They just mosey around expecting the usual hand to mouth treatment without doing any of the work themselves. Then we act like they deserve all the credit and all they need to be self-sufficient is a little more time.

            That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t know when to say when what with your co-dependent bullshit. You’re as culpable as a brother who burns his sister by not paying her back that thousand bucks he borrowed but then cries foul when she doesn’t chip in to help pay for mom’s medication.

            Point taken I guess. But I was trying to get to something a little bigger pal. Why do we continue to take care of things that have been for all intents and purposes long dead, largely at the hands of their said caretaker?

            I’ll tell you why. There are just things in life that we try to save at the last instant before their demise. These are things we always loved, but never knew how much, or simply forgot about, until they died. Or in this case, almost died. You might say it’s kind of like a proactive staving off of you don’t miss your water until the well runs dry kinda thing. Catch my drift?

Slipping on a surprise of fine dirt, the Kid’s right knee goes down hard and the collective weight of it all amplifies the stillness before the rush and fade of intense but short lived pain. He looks up reflexively to ask why to nobody in particular, regarding this as his right, and after basking in the other pain of intense sunlight he regains his footing and continues up slope.

            You’re telling me that the reason we feed these things is because we simply love them and want them around for their own sake and nothing else? Why the heck would we love something that can’t even fuck or feed themselves without government intervention? I mean, I know I’ve got my obvious bias here as the wager seems to be my own flesh and blood, but what are you people trying to accomplish here? If you want a pet, why don’t you go down to that pet store in the mall with all them puppy mill puppies? You know, one of them scrunchy faced skin flaps of a dog they get from Russia? Last I heard most of em’ still need a home and a sucker big enough to accept 10 years of eugenically imposed veterinarian bills.

            Well how right you are mister right all the time guy! Did you wake up today thinking you were going to do something awesome (said with a cute baby voice)? And another thing, what’s with the puppies dude? You’re scaring people. But you’re making a big mistake assuming the correct criteria for abandoning a lifesaving effort has anything to do with the reality of quality of life or ability to care for themselves. The correct criteria for saving this thing is all about guilt and showmanship. On one hand the guilt we have about building cities and feeding our families with prodigious amounts of animal protein remains palpable. And we all know the climax of guilt is the dread of regret pulsing through our veins on our deathbed. So, there’s that. And on the flipside, we have the mascot. Or if you prefer the euphemism, the “heritage species.” As we lumber towards total control of the universe, say real monarchy like, we need little things to dance for our shrinking pre-frontal cortices. Not to mention how bad we need them to reinforce how giving and magnanimous we are in the face of vicious takeover. Capeesh?

            I pity you and your kind. What the? Christ not now…

Pushing off and pulling hard for the remaining yardage up slope the surging heat inside his boots finally makes an appearance. Complying with this petty curiosity in the face of more immediate success, he gives in and looks down. Noticing the rubber outsole rubbing against the upper leather at an angle parallel to the hillside, rocking back and forth to retain balance, he sees how the heat has been created. Blinking twice to zoom in for a close up on the perpetrators, the next moment makes a tiny squeak which turns out to be nothing more than an exact replica of any door hinge nudged open by any everyday breeze.

Part III.

Back on track up the hill the Kid is hauling a body towards what he hopes is the pre-designated feeding site. As a reminder, it is a body that feeds things deemed incapable of feeding themselves. When the meat is ingested it will create ATP allowing the consumer to stabilize their physiological status quo until the next feeding. That said in the next hour the Kid will become completely lost as the scratchy bass of leathered skin drags along the sandy sediment of previously intact boulders. Until then his path seems clear if not labor intensive. 

Solitude or the magnetic pull to move towards the eventuality of human independence has been with him since kindergarten. Perhaps even since birth. He will never know the exact moment when this self-diagnosed and seemingly extreme impulse crystalized within his character, but the time to scratch that itch is apparently at hand. At the very least the legs of this yet to be imposed exile need some stretching. No one knows, after all, if he even has the courage to undertake such a thing.

Upon leveling off on a flat plane after finding a workable hiking rhythm the impact of recent events catches up to him like the eventual intensity of smashing a pinkie toe into a wardrobe. Even though the difficulty regarding evolving mission details hasn’t even occurred to him yet, he smarts fiercely remembering the dirt nap of his previous transportation.

          What the fuck was I doing? Of all people you’re probably the most cautious and most risk averse when it comes to these things. Yes, you like to allow a little adrenaline in now and then, but this is unexpected and out of character. Although think about it. Nobody ever granted you permission to make even one mistake. Especially this one. So in that sense I’ve always been this way and it was only a matter of time until I was punished for how I’ve always been, regardless of the delay.

When considering how liquids are moving within his body there are several examples to work with. First there is blood. Blood moves in a circulated rhythm starting with the heart and continuing through networks of arteries and vasculature. Then there is water, devoid of carbon if speaking purely in molecular terms. Water is distributed like a sponge from stomach to muscle to pores. Just ask any sweat prone individual who wakes up one hot summer night, slams a glass of water, and within seconds finds new droplets squeezed onto neck, back, and forearms. Guilt, shame, and regret however do not move like blood or water. They are activated from the inside out much like a microwaved cheeseburger. Perhaps from a favorite drive-in. After grabbing the scratchy wrapping paper from your dealer and sensing internal ignition the nuclear core is only discovered upon first bite. Perhaps the third. But instead of within a plastic cube with a rotating glass plate these other burgers ignite inside your brain, heart, and stomach. And instead of a shelf life of 10 minutes they have a half-life of 76 years. Gradually one’s actions heat them up until that initial hint of pressure finally boils over. After which they can finally be appreciated for what they truly are. Poisonous empty calories of humanity’s own creation mandated by the creator for immediate consumption.

Sensing a blackout brought on by valiant physical labor, a jarring skip of untied rope jolts our hero back into himself. This new opportunity for closer inspection yields another cringe as he anticipates another mistake he needs to convince himself out of. He kneels to re-tie the carrion. Feces from brothers and sisters co-mingle along streaked haunches as the last meal slowly evacuates the once frozen rectum at the behest of the last hour of driving heat.

          I should have just done a bowline on a bight. That would have solved it. Face it broham you couldn’t tie a bowline on a bight even if you somehow magically turned yourself into that dude from Jaws. Like a dolls eyes. Ok just keep doing a super tight shoelace knot over and over again. That’s the ticket holmes. Keep it up and this thing is going to resemble some kinda half assed lanyard. Oh, and stop shoulding all over yourself. Wait, look at that. That’s a Ferruginous Hawk. No fuckin’ way you’d get that lucky! No, no. It definitely has the contrasting barring on the ventrices and it’s definitely cruising with a slight dihedral displaying bulging secondaries. I’ll be damned.

Slightly buoyed by his lifer but recognizing the diminishing daylight paired with the reality of his bearings his mind wanders as much as this temporary absence of pain will allow. As it was earlier, solitude and his designs on the solo life take the brunt of this relief. What better time to consider his readiness when having to navigate from waypoint to waypoint in the middle of a gigantic canyon. Perhaps opening night will unlock a mission of finding food or water in order to survive, or maybe it will simply entail setting up a two-hundred dollar generator. In any case this dress rehearsal will have to be accurate if he is to be suitably prepared.

A recurring question occurs to him about what’s so good about being alone anyway. He can go where he likes. Within a modicum of practicality he will do what he wants. Nobody will look at him when he eats. Nobody will have any say over how long he spends on meaningful or esoteric activities. His decisions will be based entirely on one human being. Pacing his room or stalking his campfire for hours, much longer than accepted as the norm by polite society, will only be looked down upon by the ceiling or the stars. Regardless of the fruition or degree of isolation, he will still be kind to people. But he won’t have to be nice. He will acknowledge their presence and provide reciprocal behavior so as not to inflict discomfort or cruelty, but he will also provide ample warning about needing a wide berth. Steer clear motherfuckers. That, he determines, is what’s so good about being alone.

Shadows grow tangential above the terrestrial plane as they slowly extend from the edges of jagged outcroppings. A 10-foot black man with no discernible features bounces behind his master. Blue oaks retain their gnarly sentinel presence but with diminished light surrender to a specter like appeal. Ignorant of their sonic contribution, Lepidoptera snap awake within their crowns.

Using intuition as his internal compass the hiking path coincides with the road and he sticks to the central vein despite having the option of several branching paths. While engaged in the pulling and constant readjustment of hands and rope the balance of complimentary muscles begins to fail. A fidgety child in a wool sweater the young man challenges his lats, traps, and delts to settle in to a comfortable rhythm. To no avail he realizes the sheer effort of pulling substantial weight by such primitive means will yield nothing but the sacrifice of muscular harmony.

Perhaps his olive green, water wicking, UV protecting, convenient sleeve buttoning shirt can provide some assistance. No dice apparently. At most it will bring him back for that brief moment where chest hair scratches against nylon polyamide only to be relieved by a small space where air gets through. Thank Christ he’s not wearing cotton. On his face lie beads of sweat above layers of skin above layers of muscle above layers of tendon above layers of bone. Both cheekbones feel heavy and ticklish as they hog all the gravitational attention but give way to the dank warmth in his mouth. Literally just a hole in his face the borders move like spandex but maintain internal silkiness unparalleled even by silk. Except unlike silk they do thrive on moisture. Instantaneous with introductions yet fleeting in duration he struggles to hold on to these visitors so as to keep the others at bay.

          I’m gettin’ kinda tired here. Why am I doing this again? Why am I putting myself through this when I just want to be somewhere else? How am I getting back? Looks like I’m gonna have to make the slog. Maybe if I thought about things a little more. You know, planned the steps out and thought about the likely outcomes and such? Shit, you’re doing it again. You gotta slow down a bit. Where the heck am I? This road could go on forever. At this pace and strategy before you know it the Colorado river will be my final destination. Jesus.

And at the mention of our lord and savior a catalyst flares and blood flow switches direction as reverse capillary action diverts much needed supplies from lower to upper body. Navigating the means by which he can improve his situation a stew of truncated planning mixes with the heaviness of confusion. It creates a sense that he might be walking in circles. He does however continue to walk in more or less a straight line, albeit slowly as he alternates between rejection and acceptance of said distress.

          If I can’t get out of here before dark, I’m gonna have to sleep in here surrounded by these walls. I’m gonna have to walk the whole way back regardless, but do I want to spend the night surrounded or should I try to get back on top to have a better line of sight? I only have this one water bottle, no food, and I told everybody that if I decided to head over to East camp I was just gonna camp for the night. Nobody’s coming dude.

And from this realization springs the reality upon which he had been waiting to test himself, arriving with all the perceived advantages and pitfalls. Besides the perks previously listed, another peculiar advantage of being alone recently having occurred to him was the correct way of appreciating his achievements. Never one to raise a single outstretched forefinger in victory or even concede success in relative solitude under covers, it was only while separated geographically from the masses that he could breathe a smile of relief at having done a good job. Now moving further from one goal and closer towards another the betrayal of that sentiment as dependent on a certain set of stable conditions grows painfully obvious.

           Ok, so here you are. You’re pulling dead weight towards nowhere with no real plan and you’re making it worse by indulging in some sort of self-flagellation as if punishment rather than intensive course correction is the fix. Flagellation. Sounds like a personal problem man or some kinda single celled organism. If I could just get a friggin radio out here to call somebody. If somebody would just take this thing off my hands so I could catch my breath for a second. No. No. This is your shit sandwich and you gotta sleep in it. Maybe I could hike up through Pauly’s Field to cut my time in half once I get to the rim? No way, it’s tick city through there. As if the Hanta threat wasn’t enough you wanna flirt with Lime Disease too? Not likely. Take the road.

          The Fuck. Is That? Ok. Ok. No. Ok. Yeah. Ok. Hmm. Ok. No.

He sees it as he turns the corner and the previous wall to his left yields to a new expanse chiseled out by twenty-five thousand years of moisture. The feeding site reveals itself in all its electrically fenced glory. To prove beyond a shadow of a doubt or to win without any shade of grace the remains of previous meals are scattered along the clearing. A clearing on the other side of a gorge. Although ninety yards is close enough for the human eye to make out critical details, the terrain between here and there is impassable even for experienced climbers. With our without cargo. Except by maybe mountain goat or snow leopard. Paired with the intensity of losing yet again, for the moment the gravity of the eight story drop smothers the stifling heat. Lowering his eyes so as not to see, the closeness mingles with the impossibility and his stomach dives in shame as he braces for what’s next. He will not be finishing the job.

Without fair warning but with a grunt ringing from the depths of his own disappointment, he grabs all four legs with both wiry hands and hurls the bovine mess into a once silent grave. Slicing through the gap the Kid watches the entire descent. From the heavy skip off sidewall where body thuds and legs break, it switches direction for a final dry splash at the bottom of the draw. Three seconds. Greedily savoring his hard earned relief he also welcomes the beginning of forgiveness of those who choose the easiest path.

Achieving full effect, he steps as close as possible to the rim, looks down, and blinks three times. With breath stabilizing and sweat cooling, a stillness sets in. An uncanny stillness if judged by the actions and emotions that just preceded it but a stillness held fast by the will of a man reveling in new found control. It will be dark soon. Indeed, the sun has already set where the dead dwell at the bottom of the canyon. Yet the light in the foreground remains powerful enough to delineate the mangled contusions now fusing with the cool dust of his companion’s arrival.

He can look as close as he wants now. He can finally see everything as particulate matter jumps free from recent impact and hovers above the roughhewn stillbirth. Surpassing the peak of his ablution a caveat awaits around the next bend, sodden with intentions to wreak maximum havoc.