AUTUMN

I walk through the dead and dying leaves, by myself. My head no longer echoes with his words, I am alone. My own tent, backpack, thoughts. Sharing has never seemed so good.

I trudge to the site and whip the tent up haphazardly, wishing I were home. The temporal splendor of crimson, gold, and clear blue sky does nothing to soothe me. I may as well be walking through the industrial area of a big city for all the sky I see.

I leave the site, tent staked down, fire built and ready to be lit, bucket of dousing earth. I walk and walk and walk, turning down path after path. I don’t know where they lead, and I like it. Grass has died in the middle of them, proof that no one has walked here for a long time.

Hills and valleys all seem the same to my eyes, and I cannot lose myself in their glory. A deer, all rippling energy and silken coat, leaps off into oblivion. I trail it with my eyes, but lose it. I wander ever upward, trance-like in my devotion.

I can see what I think is the end of the trail a little a head, ending on a sharply sloping cliff. The most beautiful scenery opens in front of me and I open my eyes for what seems like the first time.

Rolling mounts and valleys lie in front of me, dripping in burning reds and golds and melting browns, here and there a dead-green meadow breaks the scene. Far off, a wisp of chimney smoke rises cheerfully; maybe it is a mirage, tricking eyes playing with a tired mind.

I crane my head around to look back at the forest, looking dark and forbidding even in late afternoon. Out of the corner of my eye I see a metallic glimmer and tangle.

Rickety, if that’s even possible for something metal to be. It is. Rust is laced delicately through and over it all, like a spider’s web that curtains and chokes. Steps, like those on a child’s slide, wind up and around a few times, ending in an observation tower. Clearly, it hasn’t been used in a long, long time.

I move towards it and brush up against it. It wobbles and shakes like a drunken man, but I want to climb it. I want to risk it. I have to risk it.

If I plunge over the edge, I have lost nothing. I am midway between having it all and winning it all.

I step onto the first step and it creaks alarmingly. No one can hear my sharp gasp, and I continue, heart in throat. Wind fills my ears. I climb, terrified, but unable to stop.

At last I reach the platform, pulse throbbing. The view is even more breathtaking from the top, clearing the trees. It would be more beautiful if I weren’t grasping the rail with a death grip. But still, it shocks me and electrifies my soul.

Again I think of plunging over the edge, wondering what it would be like to fall through such a spectacular void before death on impact.

I feel that I am falling.

I climb down, breathless, shaking, as I notice that the sun is low in the sky. I hike back in double time, lengthy strides, briskly crushing leaf after leaf. More flutter down with a stuff breeze.

I reach the campsite as the last sun is dying and quickly strike up the fire. It blazes into a quick life, but settles back down and envelops me in a smoky haze. I notice, after a moment’s contemplation, that it is green wood.

I hear footsteps crunching along the path, and I think about the last time I was here. In spring, seeing the athletic-looking woman and short man hiking, and then canoeing. I idly wonder if they’re still together, then they are replaced with an image of the sullen-looking man. Where is he now? What is he doing?

The footsteps slowly come into my campsite, and the theme from Deliverance races through my head. In a split second, it’s replaced with images of slavering wild animals.

A ranger appears in the circle of firelight, brown eyes glaring from underneath his funny dented hat.

Do you have a permit, kid?

I don’t resent being called a kid by this stranger, and I shrug my shoulders noncommittally.

I forgot, I’ve never been to this campground—

I itch to tack on “alone” to the end, but stop abruptly instead, sounding dumb.

He glares sharply.

Just see that you get one first thing tomorrow morning. The ranger station ain’t that far from the entrance, you know. Most people get theirs by mail before they come.

I nod. I’ll do that first thing in the morning, Ranger. Where is the station, though? I didn’t see it coming in.

He screws up his face, then proceeds to sketch me an elaborate picture with his voice, which involves hiking back to the main car entrance and taking the path marked ‘Ranger Station’.

I nod, and the ranger switches his flashlight on and leaves; soon the circle of light disappears into solid blackness.

I sit in front of my fire, gazing up at the stars and the orange sliver of moon through the trees. Suddenly I am possessed, and I rummage through my sack and find a flashlight. I switch it on and off a couple times, then seize the bucket of earth and dump it over the flames. They promptly hiss and spit out with a smell of burnt earth and ashes.

I take the flashlight and my jacket and go down the trail to the cliff, flashlight bobbling along in front of me. I make the trek in record time and seat myself at the very edge of the cliff, staring into space. Blackness fills the void of valleys, thick but not choking me. The air is clean.

Stars glitter above and around me, twinkling chips of faraway ice, dancing with the moon in a celestial sphere. Time loses meaning and I watch the moon leap across the sky in what seems like time-lapse photography, the stars shift, and maybe I drift off.

I wake earlier than the sun, curled on my side in the dirt. Shafts of rose-bright light come streaming over the horizon, gathering strength and color. The sight is exhilaratingly beautiful, and I catch my breath several times. The light consecrates the autumn glory, tongues of flame that touch the leaves and send them all into breathless abandon. Every vein in every leaf is visible; every leaf on every tree is sacred. Slowly, careful, the sun goes over and rises into the sky, bathing the world in a perfect brilliance.

I wander back to my campsite and look at my watch. Six-forty-eight. I shake my head, wash my face, eat, change clothes, and head back down the trail to the ranger station.

I finish the trek, it takes only an hour and the station has a drinking fountain. I sip eagerly; the sulfuric taste of well water doesn’t bother me. A sprightly old man is standing at the desk, arguing with the on-duty ranger about the currency of a wall map, but eventually he leaves and I present myself at the desk.

Can I help you, sir?

Yeah, I’d like a permit for camping…a couple more days? Are they time-sensitive or what?

The ranger shakes his head and grins at me. Twenty-five dollars.

I pull a twenty and a five out of my back wallet, offer up some information and ID, and the ranger goes to work plugging it into the computer. I gaze at the map and trace the main hiking path.

A long section of it is crossed off, suspiciously near to my campsite.

What’s wrong with this section? Why is it crossed out?

Oh, that hasn’t been in use for a long time. It leads up to a cliff lookout, but it’s not safe anymore since the safety railing went over the edge in a big storm.

I look quizzically at her. She is describing my edge, my cliff.

Oh, really? I say nothing more, but when I return, I hike back up again to the turnoff to the lookout point.

I don’t see a no-crossing sign, and I tramp in the leaves around the trailhead, and finally hit something hard and wooden. I kick more decomposing leaves aside, uncovering a long wooden post.

A sign is posted on the middle.

Hazardous Path! For Skilled Hikers Only!