If I Was The Kind Of Person Who Wrote Love Letters To States, This Is What I’d Say

If I Was The Kind Of Person Who Wrote Love Letters To States, This Is What I’d Say

I came back home to Iowa. I came back to Grinnell College. I came back to the friends and landscapes and towns that had filled up the years since I was four and found myself moved to the Midwest.

And yet, something wasn’t the same.

I came back knowing what a petroglyph looked like and how to run a straight and steady transect. I came back with memories of the Grand Canyon in the rain and the sweeping rock walls of Taawa Park. I came back remembering the feel of monsoon water on my shoulders and mountain grit deep down in my skin.

It didn’t take long for me to work out that what had changed wasn’t this place I had always called home. Nope, it was me: between Bill Williams Mountain and Sycamore Canyon, between my first surveys and leaving Arizona, I’d become a little bit different.

I’d never been somewhere that let me get to know myself in the way that the KNF did. As days passed and the summer lengthened, little things—insights about me, about where I was going and who I wanted to be when I got there—started making themselves known. There were no dramatic moments of sudden enlightenment, no lightning strike illuminations; it was just small bits coalescing, pieces working themselves out slowly in the quiet spaces of the KNF.

I started off this project with a justification for why I was taking an internship in an area in which I had absolutely no expertise in a far off state with unknown people—I said: I’m a Spanish major and I’m a writer, but I’m also a nineteen year old kid figuring out what it is I want to do with my life.

Still a Spanish major and still a writer, I may not have myself or my life figured out, but after the KNF, I do have some fairly good ideas about where it is I want to be going. I know that the outdoors—beautiful, harsh—is always going to be one of my first loves; I know that relationships with friends can lead to some of the most fulfilling (and fun!) experiences; I know I’ve got a lusting to wander at home, abroad, and everywhere in between; I know that writing is one of the things that makes me the happiest, the most content.

In other words, I owe the KNF a pretty big one.

I need to say thank you, Arizona: thank you for breaking my heart, for making me fall in love in the first place, for making my misanthropic, cynical and angst-ridden self incandescently happy for two long summer months. I think I’m always going to feel like I left a little bit of me behind in the KNF, no matter where I am or who I’ve become.

Because I think you and I both know, Arizona, that this is really just the beginning.

Photos: 1. First monsoon at Parson's Creek 2. Southern Arizona views 3. Havasu Falls 4. Arizona sunset (photo credit: Neil)

Day 48: HERE I AM

Day Forty-Eight: HERE I AM

7/30/11:

Joe—fantastic amigo that he is—got up at four-thirty in the morning to drive me to the Phoenix Airport, but ended up instead as sole witness to my phone battle with Delta. After years of living with a dad who constantly checked and re-checked his flight departure times, I too rang up Delta only to learn that my plane had been delayed by two hours and that I was going to miss my connection in Minneapolis and that in order to get back to Iowa, I might have to be rerouted through (wait for it) Detroit.

I was absolutely tickled.

Sitting on the back of Joe’s truck in the ranger district parking lot, I went through Delta representatives like Q went through bird books: quickly and somewhat agog. There was a bit of finagling (definitely some whining) and an hour later, I’d gotten things decently settled. No connecting flight for this one. Nope, Dad was winning a “Father of the Year” award and driving to the Twin Cities. It was a debacle, but major crisis had been averted.

I took the helm of Joe’s truck, eager to work off some of my irritation. The drive to Phoenix was a true descent: barreling down highways, we lost elevation, gained heat, and met near disaster when I accidentally downshifted into reverse on the interstate. Obnoxious sporty cars whizzed on by as I drove at a more sane pace, determined to take in my last views of the Arizona landscape. Giant saguaros looking like cranky old men poked out of the dry ground as we passed out of forests and into the dry red desert.

At the airport, loaded down with my bags, I nearly fell over trying to give Joe one last hug. He’d warned me that he was bad at saying goodbyes, so it was short and sweet. Noah, Quentin, Joe and I had all exchanged addresses, promising to write. I expected exotic postcards with glossy pictures of beautiful things in the near future.

On the plane I kept looking down, saying my goodbyes to the summer, the KNF and Arizona.

From my backpack, with me through so many surveys, I pulled out my water-warped notebook and scrawled a single sentence: HERE I AM.

Photos: 1. & 2. Plane views

Day 47: Send Me On My Way

Day Forty-Seven: Send Me On My Way

7/29/11:

Something has to be said for the kind of friends that can see you at your best, at your worst, at five in the morning, at twelve at night, gasping for air, falling over, wearing zip-off pants, and losing your cool.

Joe, Noah, Yelena, myself and (until very recently) Q had lived and worked with each other 24/7 for the last two months: we had seen it all. Which to me, was really rather comforting. I had been weird, cranky, goofy and exactly myself and (drum roll please) they still all liked me (!).

In companionable silence, Noah, Joe and I hiked down into Sycamore Canyon at a sedate pace. The six mile trek took us a leisurely four hours with a few naps and minor climbing expeditions sprinkled into the mix. The bottom of the canyon was one gigantic boulder-fest, and I went into a sort of frenzy as I dashed from one to the next to the next, a deranged blonde version of Mario. 

Around us, the canyon walls rose in little ripples, these cuts in the stone providing enviable climbing opportunities, which we were only too happy to take advantage of. After bouncing out of sight of Joe and Noah, I fell back on old habits and hooted in a wavering MSO call until the two had caught up to me. On the hike out, I coddled a cowering horned toad in my hand while Joe snagged a gopher snake, its lithe body striking against his forearm.

I was tired by the end, my legs sore from rock hopping and my hair plastered to my head with sweat. My beloved green hat, having suffered innumerable hours of sun and one mishap involving orange juice, had faded dull and white-ish. I noted happily, that we all looked spectacularly grimy, and as I’m pretty sure a good day can be measured in dirt, I thought we’d done well for ourselves.

Back at North House that afternoon, Travis stopped by with his brother’s motorcycle. He’d long promised I would get to ride the Cureton horses, but as that had never come to fruition, a motorcycle ride was to stand in its place.

I was not a natural (or graceful) passenger, and more than once Travis had to growl at me to lean with him on the turns so as not to kill us both. We flew on down blacktop roads, cutting across a long meadow and slipping in and out of aspen and ponderosa groves. I, like every dog ever born, was pretty in love with the feeling of wind knotting my hair and snapping against my face. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad trade off--not by a long shot.

Saying goodbye to Travis later that day, he departed with his traditional, “I’ll see you later.”

I had to stop myself from saying: no, you won’t.

Photos: 1. Noah and Joe prepping for Sycamore Canyon 2. Climbing in the canyon 3. Joe rock hopping (photo credit: Noah) 4. Small finds in Sycamore Cayonon 

Day 46: We’ll Still Have The Summer After All

Day Forty-Six: We’ll Still Have The Summer After All

7/28/11:

We made a two vehicle caravan as we drove through the KNF in what would be my last venture through the forest. Despite fires, paperwork and heritage programs, the full crew was united for one final day. Neil was treating us to two phenomenal archaeological sites: Tarantula Petroglyphs and Pinyon Nut Fort.

The Tarantula Petroglyphs, discovered in 1993 by a forest volunteer, were etched into a rock outcropping in a side drainage of Spring Valley Wash. In the mid-1990s, when KNF archaeologists brought Hopi elders to the site, a number of Hopi clan symbols were noted, including a spider petroglyph from Joel’s own Spider Clan. Nearby, Jeddito Yellow Ware—“ancestral Hopi pottery,” according to Neil, “the same clay used in their pots today!”—had been discovered.

Sadly, vandalism had occurred at Tarantula Petroglyphs, albeit from an unlikely source. A Peruvian sheepherder, moving through the area, had scrawled his name over the main panel of petroglyphs. KNF archaeologists had worked with a rock art conservator in attempts to camouflage the graffiti with different pigments, but this had been only a “short term solution…you can still see the mar if you look closely.”*

Running my hands along the rough rock, I couldn’t keep myself from clambering down into a crevice to look for petroglyphs or hopping along high up above the rest of the crew. At the base of the enclosing rock walls were several standing pools; filled with mossy green water, they looked particularly unappetizing to me although, in bone dry Arizona, the pools undoubtedly made the site an important one for the petroglyph artists.

Meandering through the KNF on our way to Pinyon Nut Fort, we passed through Antelope Meadow, scared up some cows, and came across part of the KNF Timber Crew. Ensconced in tiny Caterpillars fitted with huge scissor teeth, the Timber Crew was removing excessive scrubby trees by literally cutting them out of the ground with one solid snip. I watched as the flora was mercilessly felled and inquired of Travis if my government license equipped me to drive one such scissor toothed vehicle. His response was less than encouraging.

We parked at the base of the hill topped by Pinyon Nut Fort, forgoing lunch under the threat of an impending monsoon. A site with outstanding views of all the major mountains in the area, Pinyon Nut Fort is one of the most substantial Cohonina hilltop settlements in the KNF. As Neil told me, Pinyon Nut Fort was occupied until the late 1000s or about the time of the Sunset Crater Eruption (around A.D. 1084). This eruption was particularly significant in explaining why the Cohonina left the Coconino Plateau, as it is theorized that “the eruption put down a cinder mulch around the Wupatki area, making a formerly inhospitable soil type suddenly arable. The cinders provided a much needed mulch that preserved water moisture. It is speculated that for at least a generation the area had new seeps and springs, thus giving way to the great Cohonina migration and the rise of Wupatki as a regional center between the Anasazi, Cohonina and Sinagua. Prior to A.D. 1100, Wupatki was virtually unoccupied.”*

Standing in the ruins of Pinyon Nut Fort, I silently congratulated the Cohonina on choosing such a fantastic place on which to build. I really couldn’t imagine a better last view of the KNF then from atop that hill, mountains ringing the horizon as dark ponderosas and pinyons spread out below like a green carpet. It was a good day to say goodbye, I thought, the whole crew together one final time.

Later that night, Joe, Noah and I set out for Sycamore Canyon, one of the oldest designated Wilderness Areas (i.e., machinery of any kind is prohibited to maintain the natural landscape) in Arizona. Stretching through the Kaibab, Coconino and Prescott National Forests, the only way in and out of the twenty-one mile long red rock canyon was by foot or hoove. We had intended to hike down into the canyon and spend the night at a campsite beneath a heavy rock lip, but the dirt entry road had turned to deep mud and kept us from getting within three miles of the trailhead with Joe's truck. Making due, we lamented the absence of our very own Q while pitching our tents not far from a herd of bugling cattle.

Well actually, Noah and Joe pitched our tents while I sprawled atop the truck’s topper, picking out stars (can anyone point out Draco?) from between ponderosa branches. With the exception of Joe and Noah’s bobbing headlights, the forest was utterly dark, the beastly cries of cows echoing unnervingly in the air. Lying there, I thought about the immortal, wise words of one Lady Gaga: I’ve got to go oh oh oh / but we’ll still have the summer after all.

As long as the cows didn’t trample me to death as I slept in my tent, I was always going to have this summer.

*Many thanks to Neil for all this information!

Photos: 1. Tarantula Petroglyphs 2. Antelope Meadow 3. View from Pinyon Nut Fort (photo credit: Neil) 4. Small finds in Sycamore Canyon 5. Descent into Sycamore Canyon 6. Sycamore Canyon (photo credit: Noah)

Day 45: The Last Supper

Day Forty-Five: The Last Supper

7/27/11:

On the whole, I like to think that I am not an overly sentimental or gushy person. I don’t cry during sad movies; I have been known to loudly declare my distaste for babies; and having to buy “meaningful” and “heartfelt” gifts is a total nightmare for me.

And yet, the KNF was doing something to me. During this last day of actual work, I couldn’t shake the strange feeling that this was my forest...and I was going to be leaving it. No matter how many times I ran that over in my head during our survey, I just couldn’t make it sound right.

The rest of the crew was out on fires, which meant that the Grinnell contingency (minus Neil) was at Hat Ranch knoll, some more worse for wear than others (eh, Noah?). Taking pity on my compatriot, I volunteered to drive the nasty forest roads, and we bumped along at five miles per hour, skirting rocks and veritable trenches. Our final day of surveying was more or less as it had always been: lots of walking, some rock clambering, beautiful old junipers and ponderosas abounding, and lunchtime naps stretched out on the grass under the Arizona sun. I found a decently long (and spikey) point from a shed antler and waved it around for a bit before sticking it in my belt loop; there was minor stabbage by an attack cactus (in the ankle, no less); and the day passed like so many before it.

Back at North House with Yelena, the thwacking sounds of an animal trapped behind the glass doors of our fireplace drew my attention. Expecting to free a mouse, I slid the doors open and then hit the ground as a decently sized bird rocketed at my head. The distressed critter (dubbed Franklin) ripped through North House to our (admittedly girly) shrieks, slamming his feathery body into windows. After attempts to shoo him out the open door had failed, I feared for his safety and with Noah’s beloved ultimate Frisbee t-shirt in hand, scooped Franklin from the air. Overcome with panic, Franklin ceased moving and even outside, he sat docilely in my palm for a few moments before alighting in a flurry of wing flaps. Franklin thusly saved, Yelena and I lauded ourselves as loving friends to nature’s creatures both big and small.

We rounded out our final work day with a last supper at Margaret’s house. Sitting with the whole crew in Margaret’s backyard garden in Williams, I could hardly accept that my summer internship was almost over. I remembered that first day on the ranger district and Neil telling us how fast the next two months would go. Of course at the time, worried about everything as I was, I hadn’t believed him. And yet, eight weeks later, here I was.

After dinner, Yelena and I decided to walk the few miles back to the ranger district. The tiny town of Williams looked almost deserted in the warm dusk light and a creeping feeling of nostalgia for the summer was already settling over me.

I’ve always considered my ability to leave as one of the few things I’m truly good at. For better or for worse, I can detach from people and places with startling ease and have done so a number of times over the years.

Yet, joking and laughing with Yelena on that walk home, I felt sick for what I would soon be leaving. It was slowly striking me that Arizona might just break my heart a little.

And even as sentimental (and painful) as that thought was, I couldn’t help but think that missing a place like this wasn’t such a bad thing.

Photos: 1. & 4. KNF Views (photo credit: Noah) 2. Succulents 3. Franklin

Day 44: Viking Warrior Princess + Jimmy Google = Oh, What A Night

Day Forty-Four: Viking Warrior Princess + Jimmy Google = Oh, What A Night

7/26/11:

Yelena, Noah and I recorded sites on the south side of Bill Williams; Yelena referred to me as a “Viking Princess” on the phone to a friend; Noah drove a truly terrible and therefore awesome forest road; I got to play with what can only be described as a puff-dust plant—and yet, the most memorable bit about July twenty-sixth, believe it or not, was the fact that it was Noah’s twenty-first birthday.

Neil, wanting to be the first to buy Noah a drink, took the crew out to the Route 66-themed Twisters (and yes, my chocolate milkshake was delicious). Back at North House, Joe displayed his culinary talents with a steak dinner while Noah drank in the glory of legality. Later in the evening at the Salty Tuna, I commandeered Micah and Tyler’s game of darts (to marginal success) while Joe, Noah and Travis became bosom buddies with two vacationing Australians intent on the Grand Canyon. Full of stories (and marvelous accents), the two Aussies took turns brandishing a Shrek doll emblazoned with the words “Jimmy Google” across his rotund midsection. Yes, America was treating them to its finest.

I got talking to Micah and learned about the tattoo on his forearm—a physical reminder of sorts of his years as a soldier in Iraq. Noah impressed upon me, somewhat repetitively, how much he absolutely loved Grinnell. Travis—in a conversation I still find myself thinking about—told me that the college years were all about wading in a mire of existential crises, that I was going to make some decisions wrong no matter how hard I tried, and that sometimes things were just what they were, neither good nor bad. Not every moment was life or death, no matter what it felt like at the time, which (as someone with a tendency to think that way) was incredibly comforting to hear. It also didn’t hurt that Travis, who’d worked a number of fire seasons, had buttered me up by telling me I was hotshot crew material. I’d been working on a pretty healthy admiration of all things firefighter, so learning that Travis thought I had it in me to work on one of the most difficult types of crews was a sure way to get me smiling.

The night wound down with large quantities of syrup and pancakes, which Joe demanded Noah eat. I laughed over Yelena’s description of me as a “Viking Princess” and declared that I would own it with the inclusion of “Warrior” to my title.

Watching Noah singing to himself and playing with his soggy pancakes, I thought we’d given him a pretty good twenty-first birthday.

Oh, what a night.

Photos: 1. The crew at Twisters 2. Noah and Elvis (photo credit: Neil)

The Eighth Week - Day 43: When Hummingbirds Attack

The Eighth Week – Day Forty-Three: When Hummingbirds Attack

7/25/11:

Throughout my lifetime, I’ve come into contact with more than a few deranged entities.

Yet, never once did I think that the delicate, gentle and shy hummingbird would be one such creature.

Recording sites with Yelena and Noah, the thundering rattle of beating wings and the fast approaching dark body of a bird had me yelling and ducking for cover.

Freak occurrence, you say? Not so.

The hummingbird, fired up for another few rounds, continued to dive-bomb me until I beat a hasty retreat behind Noah. The little critter was peeved about something, and I was bearing the brunt of his fury. Now, hummingbirds may be small birds, but they’ve got a whooper of a beak for their size. That, coupled with the eerie buzzing of their frantically flapping little wings, was more than enough to set me on edge—especially when the tiny thing was flying directly at my nose. I managed to escape unharmed and with a healthy appreciation for the menacing power of one of nature’s (seemingly) cuddly species.

After my close encounter had passed and work was done for the day, Yelena and I rocked out unabashedly to some twee pop songs on the drive to Dogtown Lake. We were both runners and by this point in the summer, a bit tired of all of our routes from the Williams Ranger District. Dogtown Lake, with its evergreens, rocky bits of shoreline, and trails, was just what the running doctor had ordered.

Later that night, I enforced some exercise on Noah too by hauling him to the top of one of Bill Williams Mountain’s foothills. A line of telephone poles, running from the ranger district into Williams, took this route up and over the crest of the hill. To keep the telephone lines accessible, a large swathe of forest had been cleared around the poles, providing a seemingly clear path to the top. We tromped up in the semi-dark of dusk, stumbling over downed branches and tripping through prickly bushes, cell phones held aloft for their flickering light.

At the peak of the bald hill, a lonely stump jutted into the air surrounded by long grasses and a few craggy boulders. From this spot, we could look up at the shadowed face of Bill Williams Mountain, down over the quiet ranger district, or off into the web of lights that made up Williams. Further out, we could see the black outline of mountain peaks over the muted roar of the highway.

Flopping down on a rock, we stayed perched up there for a bit, stars pulling themselves out of the sky. I tried (and failed miserably) to find Draco, the constellation Quentin and Joe had been laboriously teaching me to discern from the summer nights.

Looking out over the KNF, I found myself thinking about the forest as though it were mine, psychotic hummingbirds and all.

*Part of “God wrote two books” was penned after this mini-climb.

Photos: 1. Yelena and me in the KNF 2. Noah (photo credit: Neil) 3. Views from the Williams Ranger District