Cramped in the City of
Cramped is what I feel and cramped is what
I am.
Perhaps the world is just too full and I
am the last straw.
I pull off to the eroded shoulder
of the road across from the gated road leading up to the reticent LDS Church
Vaults in Little Cottonwood Canyon. I
sit in my old truck and stare blankly at the asphalt leading upward. The stream of cars leading down the canyon
seemed to trail on forever and then finally breaks. Where are these people coming
and go to? I start to wonder, then stop caring. I avert my gaze and look up at the granite
cliffs a few hundred feet above the road.
They are thankfully void of people on this rainy November evening. Their grainy hulks step out of the gamble oak
and crookedly reach for the sky and the snow dusted ridges above.
I look back at the snake of
cars and wonder if I should even get out of my truck and endure my pain of
being seen as I reach for the concealing brush.
I slowly step out, grab my pack and walk down the shoulder, head low,
avoiding any oblivious gaze. A crack in
the traffic leads me across the road and up a small gully away from the eyes,
cars, and the electronic senses guarding the road leading to the vaults. The broken gully steepens and is swallowed by
the oak; I move upwards seeking the throat.
The elevation comes quickly as I pull myself upward through the density
of Little
Soon I reach a clearing at
the base of an incisor-like cliff. A cliff that had treated me with fear and success years ago. I ponder its sharp edge and catch a whiff of
the wet leaves carpeting the ground. The
chore of cars hum slowly below me. I turn west, down canyon, following the base
of the cliff as it winds down, and then up, leading to a hidden outcrop. I continue further, reaching a wide gully
that stretches upward towards a monstrous fin of rock hundreds of feet above
me. The fin catches the rare warmth of a
late fall sunset, reflecting its heart towards me in the shadows. The warmth fades with the sunset as I watch
and then turn my time towards the steepness above.
My grace is the lack of a
trail, but also my bane. I thrust and
twist my way through oak that might be made of bailing wire and steel. Maybe this small area is what I seek. Surely a person has visited here before, but
likely it is rare. Early pioneers would
have had little use of such an area, Native Americans maybe, the more recent
culprit, rock climbers, possibly. But as
I pick my way through, wandering upward, I cannot shake the feeling flowing
from below. The slither of the snake is
so clear. The road leading to the vaults
is below and the creep of suburbia is glowing in the canyon bottoms just
beyond. I feel cornered like a rat in
this granite lined cage. I’d fight to
keep something, even just one last section of my beloved canyon empty.
My irony is that I am
here. I brought the contamination from
below and cramped this land the more. Seemingly boxed in on all sides I turn back downhill, following the
opposite bank of the channel.
Along this edge I catch the glint of metal on rock and betraying that
others, climbers, passed here before; an apparent cherry for my moment. Elevation again comes quickly, this time
assisted by gravity. The oak claws at my
clothing, perhaps asking me to stay, or I chuckle silently,
tormenting me for entering. I
reach the well-kept road leading to the vacant lot at the vaults and feel the
stench of modernity growing. I cross and
enter the brush, once more avoiding the infrared eyes. A few more feet find me again on the bitumen
shoulder, walking upcanyon beside the parasitic
snake. I reach my truck, fire the
ignition, glance back uphill at my eternal granite and join the sycophant.
© Arie
Leeflang 2007