Issue 3:2 | Non-Fiction | Sebastian Matthews
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Sebastian
Matthews
Lines
in Reverse, Written after a Long Nap, the 2-Volume Dover Edition
of
Thoreau’s Journals Open at My Side
It is as hard to see one's self as
to look backwards
without turning around.
Up from
an afternoon nap hectic with skittish dreams, I slip downstairs into
the empty house to write these lines.
I startle
awake to Ali carrying sleeping Avery into our room. Then the three of
us together in bed—drifting along on a light current of sleep. Dog on
her dog bed, sighing.
Clean
t-shirt and boxers, freshly showered, I half-remember easing into bed:
body tired from drive home, morning hike, hard night's sleep on compacted
futon.
Moving
through the house in a trance, I gradually come to realize, despite the
car in the drive, Ali and Avery are not home. Ali’s handwritten note
on the table: off to the lake with friends.
*
Thoreau
writes in his journal, July 12, 1852: I observed this morning a row
of several dozen swallows perched on the telegraph-wire by the bridge,
and ever and anon a part of them would launch forth as with one consent,
and return to the wire again. I
have watched these very birds, in their one mind, swarm and reform
over the factories out on River Road.
*
Pulling
into our driveway after two-hour drive: Ali's car dozing in the driveway
of sunlight. Crows somewhere above broadcasting this little bit of news.
Turning
off at familiar exit, almost home, a sweet song wafting up out of the
tape deck. Everything’s going to be alright.
Steering
onto Highway 26 at the airport, the trip’s last restless leg. I pull
into the fast lane and zoom along the long muddy-brown back of the French
Broad.
After
an hour of high-mountain driving (sharp turns, deep drops, narrow lanes,
brief flashes of panoramic view), coming upon the relative flat of Brevard.
And on through toward Asheville.
*
July
12. Thoreau's already walked out of morning, stepped boldly into the
river. He writes: Divesting yourself of
all your clothing but your shirt and hat, which are to protect your exposed
parts from the sun, you are prepared for the fluvial excursion. Indeed!
*
In Cashiers,
slipping back on 64, an old Marley tape clicking into gear, I drop down
the mountain road through a cheering crowd of trees.
Stepping
out of the café: strong coffee and muffin, fresh dish of water for the
sleepy dog. Climbing into the truck, I kick a cassette out from under
the seat.
Pulling
into Cashiers, happy and tired from the brisk hike. Feet flaring in their
boots. All around me this mountain town’s lunchtime pulse. Mouthing, I
am invisible.
Up Route
107 out of South Carolina back toward Cashiers, I ignore John's advice
to turn-off at an especially beautiful overlook. Having had my feet in
the river, I feel no need to see it from on high.
*
Thoreau,
later that same day: In the shallow water near the shore, your feet
at once detect the presence of springs in the banks emptying in, by the
sudden coldness of the water, and there, if you are thirsty, you dig
a little well in the sand with your hands, and when you return, after
it has settled and clarified itself, get a draught of pure cold water
there.
*
Stepping
off the trail, drenched, left knee stiffening, my thoughts are already
driving themselves homeward. A family of hikers setting out for a strenuous
hike.
The downpour
comes unexpectedly. I’m drenched from head to foot in seconds flat.
Little
Bear tries to shake her coat out but to no avail. Now the wind has picked
up. There's nothing to do but turn around and head back to the car.
The first
drops of rain fall down as if the trees have been shaken by a trickster
hand of wind. I laugh, picturing a crow purposefully knocking a branch
as we pass below. But more rain follows in a wet net of drops. No wind
yet picking up the tree branches.
Cresting
a small ridge under a tunnel of Rhododendron; underneath my feet, the
ragged river.
*
Henry
peers down into the water, jawdropped at small stones about the size
of a walnut. He's measuring depth of river, noting
the pattern of rock bed. And now he's out of the water (still half-undressed?)
and walking the field, on a road where no dust was ever known, no
intolerable drought.
*
Turning
around after a couple hours in, suddenly aware that I’ve stopped looking
at the surroundings. Only wanting to hike further up along this "wild
and scenic" river to say I have.
Before
I can get my hands up, I take a spider’s web in the mouth, the long strand
sliding between my teeth. The silk threads collapse on my cheeks, unloosed
ends trailing sparking pricks on bare forearms.
After
about thirty minutes alone on the trail, campsites start popping up—a
fisherman crouches on a rock, dogs appear at the mouths of tents.
Stepping
onto the Bartram trail just before 9 am, eager to get deeper into this
morning free for adventure. Ursula disappearing ahead on the trail, brown
tail turning behind her like a crank.
*
I have
lost track of Thoreau awhile, only to find him fondling some river oaks,
eyeing a neighbor’s fence: Excepting those fences which were mere
boundaries of individual property, the walker can generally perceive
the reason for those which he is obliged to get over.
*
I honk
goodbye to John as he turns off 107 toward Spartanburg, flipping on 4-wheel
drive as I turn down the park road. Dog eager for the trek she senses
we'll soon take.
Scarfing
down last few forkfuls of “scratch-made” pancakes as John jots down directions
to the Chattooga River: a perfect morning hike trail along its rugged
course.
Early
morning. Pulling into Cashiers after a short drive from John's compound.
Parking at the local diner, this John’s tenth summer.
Driving
past Thomas and Nan’s road on our way to breakfast, remembering the previous
night's dinner—talk rife with writing, building, making books, of all
the wild and powerful men and women who people our lives.
*
Our man
Henry has been out all day. I, too, have traveled this circular track
of countryside, now back to this desk. What is called genius is the
abundance of life or health says
Thoreau a little further along in the same entry. Looking at the brimming
river at his feet he exclaims, This is the true overflowing of the
Nile.
*
Following
John up out of this rugged land that he bought from Thomas a decade before;
we come out of the valley along a steep, deeply-rutted road no wider
than a footpath, half-hidden trillium on our left and our right.
A moth
the size of a wind-up toy buzzes in the bottom of dog bowl, lapping up
the last of Little Bear’s breakfast. Shining silver insect in the hazy
sun.
Locking
up the two buildings, putting away the chairs from the night's fire,
turning the outhouse crank once to roll the shit over into its folding
of peat moss.
John
steps out from his rebuilt sawmill cabin, yawning and stretching in the
morning chill. Ursula runs toward him—a desire line behind her in the
dew-heavy grass.
*
One
who walks the woods and hills daily, expecting to see the first berry
that turns, will be surprised at last to find them ripe and thick before
he is aware of it… Henry
walks along the riverbed. Toads still at night...long after
starlight...in the midst of the deepening shadows of the night. He sits under an Ash. The twilight ends tonight
apparently about a quarter before ten. There is no moon.
*
I step
out onto the porch of the Yeatsian tower that Thomas built back in the ‘80s.
A writing
loft above; water from spring-head surging below beneath the floorboards.
Waking
in the dusty morning light of a strange room, half-remembering worry
dreams of scratching rats.
Middle
of the night, a full orchestra of night noises, rat scurries. Lying in
the dark, unable to sleep, swimming upstream along the day’s long river.
Rising
up creakily in front of the dying fire, goodnights between us. John off
to his cabin, me to the tower. Dog a shadow passing behind me as I step
over the singing brook.
*
Peeping
ahead to July 13, I watch over Thoreau's shoulder as he notes, still
in his morning shirt, giddy from the previous day's freshly reread journeys,
imagination's feet wetted again in the alluvial pool: A journal, a
book that shall contain a record of all your joy, your ecstasy.
for
John Lane and Thomas Rain Crowe
