A Guide to the Wilderness

Karen Terrey

"Do not fear the spaces."
- John Cage, Silence

The passenger in my car whistles at people out the window. In New Mexico the sand lies ribbed by ancient water but it had only happened that spring. In winter the weight of the air blowing smoothes out the dunes. My eyes are hungry and the desert is the moon between brown sage. I stop for 8 years. The vertebrae of the land undulate beneath me.

~

When I continue I open my guidebook and cradle it in my arms across the country. From a hotel window I watch the angry ball of a bore wave unzip the river. I store apples in my socks and books in my hat. My car breaks down in Elko so I abandon it. The Mormons let me jump on their trampoline. Snow crunches where I walk. The sign says Summit 8400.

~

My neighborhood is my family is my neighborhood is remaining in one place so that I may triangulate my position. My tracks trace parabolic flowers across the land like the sand patterns of a pendulum in the museum of science. I sleep on the futon I’d given away. Sea lions yelp all night through the open window. Then I am alone and snow piles up in the fireplace.

~

When snow changes to rain I open the door. My deck hosts black bears and coyotes and we celebrate the stars. The tops of the cedars walk down to the beach but the sheriff makes them return. School children write poems about parsnip and garlic. I commute over the mountain. Red arrows in the guidebook tell me to jump off a cliff and the snow is deep enough. Springtime comes every time.