"Momental Momentum (or Hiking with Moki Essay)
(This essay describes a hike Kyle took with Liz's dog Moki up Manastash Ridge. His family and friends took the same hike to celebrate his life.)
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Digging through an overflowing laundry basket, I find what I'm looking for: a pair of twice-worn, rank polypro leggings and a fleece top. My heart, pumping franticly, pushes my legs and arms, which slither purposefully in a dance of dressing. Finally, behind the wheel of my car, I rumble away from my house. My car is similar to the lush, layz-boy, loveseat lounge chair you might see basking under the polished glass of a display window uptown...except it has four wheels, three hundred and fifty horses, and cruise control. Thoughts, like road signs and fallen leaves, flash by me as I head for her house. A tight ball of energy, similar to a crystal sphere of melting ice, revolves and rotates in my belly. Anxiety and stress peel off my neck and shoulders like the shell of a traffic-light-yellow grapefruit. Yes, here...
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"What's up?" I ask mildly as I enter the house and spend several minutes engaged in a wrestling bout with her dog, a golden labrador who is flat on his back, eyes asking, before I can barely tousle his sandy, broadleaf ears.
"Are you ready?" Her hands slip around my waist and give a tight squeeze as she moves past me through the doorway. "C'mon, let's go..." Before she even says his name, Moki is circling the car, sniffing, anxious.
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Leaving town like moths toward a flame, we engage in the usual 'how-was-your-day' conversation. She tells me about this and that, last night and next week. I half-listen and make googly eyes at Moki. He knows where we are going and inches his way across the seat, desperate to kiss me.
"So you think you'd be interested?" I'm caught wondering what it was that she was saying.
"Yes, of course...when?"
"Well, I'm not sure about the exact date yet." I narrowly escape with a reasonable question and Moki smiles up at me as if we have some sort of male understanding about selective listening.
"I would love to get out on the water," I remember what she was talking about: going sailing with her father next month, "I don't get out on a boat much more than once year; I'm working then."
Docking my land yacht near the "Ridge Trail Parking" sign, I reach behind the seat to grab my pack. Moki's head darts back and forth, unsure of which door will open first. She cracks hers open and he leaps out followed by a jetstream of hair that settles on her lap.
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The late afternoon light of November speckles the hills above us. Moki darts from the edge of the cement road toward the gravel and beyond. His wagging tail carries my gaze upward until I am squinting at our destination: the arched peak of a ridge, its northern most leg blanketed with a cover of pine trees, an old man warming himself before a fire.
"You O.K.?" she smiles and looks back at me.
"Yeah," I catch up to her, "what a day." The clouds breaking just above the ridge hurry to avoid the dark mass billowing over the valley's western foothills. "I have a feeling it might snow soon."
"I hope so, I love the snow"
"Me too."
Moki darts ahead sniffing and searching; then, looking back and noticing us, he turns and sprints, his rear end swaying to the right or left as if his hind quarters were trying to catch up with the rest of him. A flat section of road leads us alongside an empty ditch until we cross a bridge and come up upon the first difficult section of our hike: a steep, eroded trail which slithers up the embankment like a supine rattlesnake preparing for hibernation under winter snows.
I first feel the sweat at the roots of my hair, beading and tickling my scalp and lower back. Blood pumps to my legs in an attempt to quench the thirsty burn that has flared in my calves and shoots up my hamstrings. The frozen grapefruit of nerves ripening in my belly dissolves into a pulpy juice, trickling away. We reach the top of the first pitch, grinning, happy, intoxicated by each other, and Moki, and the moment.
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Have you ever noticed a twinkling crack between autumn and winter which is neither autumn nor winter? It is as if a giant wooden door has swung shut, an ancient key twisting and grating, locking life away until March, April, or May. "Swoosh!" It exhales. Its oaken flesh claps together; a muffled "schwunk" sends the crisp, bittersweet, burnt smell of autumn up one nostril and the icy, menthol vapor of winter down the other. If such a moment exists, it is this afternoon.
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After ascending several large bumps along the spine of the ridge, we enter the forested blanket of the old man. Moki darts between the trees chasing birds. Patches of stale snow here and there reminded us we have little time before we will hear winter's latchkey clicking behind us.
"Whew," I stop to rest and swing my pack off my shoulder; "You want a swig?" I offer her my waterbottle.
"Please."
Impatient and demanding, Moki dances around chomping at our legs and then lunging backward, his head level with the ground between his front paws, his back arched, his entire rear end swaying back and forth with excitement.
"Look!" she spreads her arms and arches her head back toward the sky as if she were Peter Pan heading for Never-never Land. A lonesome flake of snow maneuvers between the boughs of the trees and comes to rest in the cleft between her nose and her cheek, the same place where a tear might fall. She begins to giggle as if she were an infant who was hearing the melody of a familiar lullaby. I can't help but laugh with her and soon all three of us are barking and laughing and crying with delight.
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As we approach the summit the trees begin to thin out until we find ourselves at the ragged fringe of the old man's blanket. A thin zigzagging trail will lead us to his lap, our destination. Moki races ahead as we sigh and muster the last of our strength in order to finish the climb. We begin slowly up the final pitch, conserving our strength, but as we get closer and feel the end within our grasp we push and strain and grunt like a mother giving birth to her child. At last we stand heaving together looking back from where we have come; we admire the careening landscape as if we were the proud parents of the entire valley.
"C'mon...let's go." She leaves me doubled over, still trying to catch my breath, and heads toward Moki, who is investigating a shrine of rocks and rubble. A lone fencepost rising from the rockpile holds a weathered wreath above its head. I join them.
Exhausted, I clutch her hips and taste the warm, salty beads of sweat that form around the base of her neck.
"Mmm..." she replies.
"Hmmm?" Moki whines between our legs.
Among the rocks there is an old army tin that holds a book of names and dates; hikers use it to record their success with wordy entries or simple signatures. I am inspired:
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Bathing under a cold shower of snow we slip and slide down the path. Unlike the steep crisscrossing trail that led us to the top, our course downhill is a gentle curve traversing the arm of the old man's chair. Our conversation trips and skis with us down the icy mountain. We talk about plans for the future and memories of the past, things we have done and things we have yet to do. She and I, we are companions: satisfied, snug, and sanguine. Moki too.
Before we realize it, my car, covered under a sheet of white satin or velvet says: "Hello. You're back, how was your trip?" We haven't been gone more than a couple hours; yet, there has been a great shift in the cosmos. We are insignificant; yet, we have witnessed something spiritual and immaculate. Our corner grocer's T-bone steak special universe roasting on the gas-powered barbecue grill of eternity has just been flipped and baptized in a holy splash of tangy gravy. We love it.
Kyle Jefferies
ENG/412
January 31, 2001