Let Me Live and Let Me Learn
Life of My Own–Three Doors Down
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Since Fletch is 15, she is mostly retired now. She has arthritis in her spine, back legs, front shoulders and elbows. She’s not hearing quite as much. She’s not seeing quite as much either. Her nose seems to work perfectly, though, and she definitely has all her taste buds.
I remember when we ran together in the desert for hours. Fletch would run and run, darting everywhere, chasing lizards, chasing rabbits, giving a great big f%*@ you to the ravens, whom she always had some kind of vendetta against. I remember her legs flying across the slickrock, her entire face stretched in a glorious, ecstatic smile. Walking is slow and hard now. Those sturdy little back legs have gone floppy and prone to wipe outs, and my heart catches when she struggles to her feet. I wonder what I’ll do on the day she can’t make it up. In this, as in everything, Fletch has a spirit so strong it puts me to shame. I watch her closely in these quiet winter days, because she is showing me yet again the right way to live–never giving up, doing the best she can, with a smile on her face. Fletch is a happy little creature. She loves the moments of her life.
Winter has come to the desert, in a sudden quiet hush. The frenzied days of fall seem like another life. The visitors are all gone home or to warmer places, and once again I have time to think and feel, a return to solitude and quiet. The days are short and brilliant. White snow frosts the red cliffs, blue shadows fire the orange rock. Fletch and I sit in front of the woodstove in the long evenings, watching the flames wrap the wood. I listen to the crackling and to Fletcher’s deep sleep breathing. I am comforted by the sound of air flowing through her little body. All three of us, the fire, Fletch, me, creating heat, breathing air, living.
In the mornings, I lift Fletch into my truck and drive down Kane Creek Road, to the Tombstone. I plant my wind flag and set her down in the parking lot. Fletch can’t walk very much now. Exploring the yard and traveling up and down her ramp to her dog door and into the kitchen to keep a close tab on her food dish keeps her well exercised at home. But I think she needs outings. Small Fletch outings. When I set her on the dirt, she stands a little wobbly at first, like a fawn, and looks timid. This, from my little Navajo res dog, who used to know she owned the world, dominating dogs four times her size! I ignore her, like she likes, and start my own investigations, looking on the ground for heart shaped rocks, feeling the winds move, watching the flag dance. I know already the winds are too variable and swirling for a BASE jump. I’ve jumped in these conditions in the past, and I don’t do that anymore, because I’ve learned how fast you can hit the ground.
Now that I’m sniffing around, Fletch gets interested. She makes her way to the scrubby dried grasses and noses through the brush. Gradually her radius widens. We stroll around together, noticing things. The breeze flips and circles, plays with the flag and swirls around the canyon like water.
The flag drops flat. Suddenly the wind is out, switched off.
The Tombstone is all rich light, smooth and perfect. I think about stepping off the edge and feeling my body loose in the air. The wind sweeps my face from each direction, then spins around giddily, brushing me and flipping my hair. The flag leaps up, flicks from side to side, dancing. The air darts around, invisibly.
This is obviously the wrong time for jumping. But Fletch is winding down from her tour. I watch the flag flick around some more. Little lulls come, when it falls straight down and stays flat for a few seconds. I lift Fletch into the car and crack the window just a bit. I pick up my BASE rig and start up the snowy trail. Wind pushes into my face as I turn the first corner, into the canyon that leads to Back of Beyond and the top of the Tombstone. It’s still a half hour to the top. At some certain moment, the wind will rush away as fast as it rushed in. It will go away to the next place, leaving silent calm, an entirely different world. It’s good to walk to the top, even if the winds are wrong at the parking lot. It could still happen. I like to walk up the snow-covered slabs near the top, stamping my feet to make them stick. Behind me the LaSals are bright and pointed, the soft draped slopes like skirts of white velvet.
When I reach the top, I sit in my spot, where I always sit. The flag is still crazy-dancing down below. The wind is slicing up the wall and from side to side. I crawl to the edge of the Tombstone, and spit down the face. It flies up and left, while the air blows my hair back. I sit back. I look at the beautiful desert walls lining the canyons that fork out beyond me. I feel the wind. It’s good to be here, on top of this rounded rock tower, surrounded by snow and sandstone. It’s good to feel the wind, take the cold air in my lungs. It’s good to hear the birds shoot past, riding the air. I know why I’m here. It’s good to think about the feeling of falling through the air, talus rushing into my eyes. I imagine the jump, those clean seconds of time. The wind ripples my jacket and my eyes tear a little. I stand up, satisfied. It’s good to walk down.
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http://tawcan.wordpress.com/2008/12/26/sore-but-happy/ Sore but happy « Confessions of a Monkey