Black Forest Canyon

by Ric Brancato

I reach into the shower, turn the shower knob to hot, wait a few seconds, and step in. Ahhh. Now how good does this feel? I close my eyes and rock myself, gently, side to side, letting the water rain over me. I close my eyes and smile as the heat and sound of water surround me. This is a moment that I want to last forever.

Another one would be the ten minutes right before I fall to sleep. The ten minutes right before I fall to sleep should always be forever. To close the eyes and ride the softly undulating waves of black. To breathe in the coolness of the pillows. I’m just a minute in, and where is it that I always go?! But now I’m back again. But where did I go? I was there, now I’m here again, in my room, lying on my bed. My thoughts... Where are my thoughts? There they are! Always moving! I toss my pillow over, breathe in the coolness, and smile. My thoughts dissolve. But where? Where is it that we always go? Ten minutes in. A dream begins...

The shower. A world of water, a world we were all once familiar with. The first ten minutes before I sleep? Different. More like floating in space. Interesting. The shower is ocean, and sleep is space. We know very little about space. We know very little about the ocean. Interesting.

Driving in my car is yet another world, another moment that should always be forever. I enjoy driving with the windows down, the sunroof open. Warm sun and warm air. I smile. Walking brings you directly in contact with your world. Driving detaches you and makes you an observer. Where am I? This is an interesting world. I am an alien passing through, admiring the sights. This is a beautiful world. The sun, the wind, the rolling landscapes, the forests, the stores, the wide-open spaces... It is all good to see, but I am just passing through. You can’t see me. You can’t touch me. I am driving in my car and I will be driving forever. I will drive forever, enjoying your beautiful world, enjoying the sun, the wind, the rolling landscapes, the forests, the stores, the wide-open spaces.

I close my eyes as rivulets of waterfalls cascade along my body. Ten minutes of deep, deep ocean before I leave.

From above, Black Forest Canyon is a maze of mottled brown and black scars running fractal-like through a carpet of green trees. On the table, Poricania, rising summer berry, and spiced maple comprise the majority of these. On the lower elevations, and in the basin, there are smaller fare, such as blossoming gingersnap, cartusian mock oak, and devil tree. Surprises abound, though, and I have seen the occasional spiced maple pretty damn near the bottom of the Canyon holding its own, although much reduced in size.

Black Forest Canyon is yet another moment, another world. Not ocean. Not space. Not driving. What? A former world. A world before machines. A world where men and women picked up sticks and knew them, struck them against rocks and heard the sounds, bundled them together and made roofs. A world of sun, and of rain, and of earth. A world where the night sky was alive and knowing. A world where they sang to themselves and to each other. And what a marvel fire is! Was it fire that brought us together and gave us language? I want to be there! I want to be the first! I want to bear witness to the changes, to experience the dawn of language and its evolution! But no! I don’t! It is good not to know. It is good to wrap yourself in mystery, and to wonder. But what a wonder fire is! Go and marvel at the buildings. Crane your neck and marvel at the height of iron! All this from flecks of iron ore! And what a wonder cities are! How many times have I walked and driven the streets of my city, and always I am a stranger! I am not a part of the city. I do not know these buildings. These buildings are tall and terrifying. Who occupies all these buildings? Who built these towering walls of steel? Everything here is strange and unwelcoming and I am not a part of it. I want to build a skyscraper all by myself. I want to gather the rocks of iron ore out the ground by myself. I want to smelt and forge and build a city of skyscrapers, all by myself. I want to drive in the city where I have built skyscrapers so that I can be a part of the city. This is my city. I know these buildings. What a wonder fire is! We are all are enthralled by its transformative effects. How we enjoy looking into the flames, to see them dance, to see the wood consumed and turned to ash, to carbon. And in these rocks — Who knows who was the first! — these flecks of iron! Throw the rocks into the fire and see what happens! Who knows who was the first! It is good not to know. It is good to wrap yourself in mystery, and to wonder.

Just a few minutes of hiking and the world I knew is gone. Despite its seven billion inhabitants, Earth is primarily this—vast stretches of desert, forest, wilderness, punctuated by glowing hubs of humanity. It is a marvel how quickly we can leave civilization, how quickly we leave our world of molded plastic and iron buildings!

I stop to take a drink of water. The sun moves across the earth and creates a kaleidoscope of shade and color, an ever-changing landscape. No part of the day is the same. To my right is a hill flush with burnt grass. The sun, at just this height and angle, lights it up with a yellow glow, giving the landscape an otherworldly appearance. Soon, the glow will fade and be gone. At home, when I wake up, I put my bonsai tree by the patio window where it receives the morning sun. As the day moves on, I move it to the left, and to the left again, and to the left yet again, always chasing the sun.

This is a trail that I have taken many times. The trees are still. Occasionally, I hear a bird or a squirrel scurrying through the brush. It is marvelous how there are different types of quiet! I thought the trail five minutes ago was quiet. But no, now, here among the stillness of the trees, it is quiet! Yes, there are different kinds of quiet. Inside my apartment, it is quiet. But then, when I leave, when I open and close the door behind me – I am surprised by the different kinds of quiet! What a wonder quiet is!

This trail is an old friend. A loop, it takes me a day to hike in and a day to hike back. I could do it in a day, but I like to take my time. The trees, the smells, the shape of the path, the sounds, all are familiar and welcoming. I imagine myself many years from now, old and worn. I will be on this path. Old friend. And I will die. Away from the world in the arms of an old friend. Some years ago, my sister’s dog died. It was an old dog. One day it went into the backyard, walked behind a tree in the corner, laid down, and died.

How short our lives are. We are born and know nothing, and so we are cursed with insecurity, leading to vanity and war. All the proud and boastful statements ever uttered in the history of man, all lead back to the little child, born knowing nothing, born without skill, without experience, growing up in a world where, daily, he is surrounded by people who know more, have experienced more, are taller, and can jump higher. What an assault on the psyche! Oh, to be born in the flush of adulthood, wise with experience and with strength and skill in the muscles! But we are forever young. We have to learn the same lessons over and over and there is no growth, no movement forward. Always and forever insecure. Always lashing out and spitting venom. I think of trails, of paths. What is it about a path in the woods? It’s a marker of life. Even when alone, I know there are people behind me, and people ahead of me. I find that comforting, even exciting. It is the parallel play of life. I am alone, but connected, engaged in my own activities while at the same time others are engaged in theirs. There is also the sense of being pulled through an environment, but in a controlled manner, being offered up new vistas with every turn and rise and dip of the trail. In this regard, hiking paths are like roller coasters or any number of other amusement rides such as haunted houses, safari train tours, or slow river rides. There is something in the narrowness and rigidity of the path, of being taken along and not having to think about where it is that you are going. The trail knows. The trail will take you. The trail has incredible things to offer, and it will guide you.

As a boy, I loved setting up train tracks and just watching the train go around and around. What would have been the alternative? Setting the train in motion on the floor without a track. Yes, I’ve done that! There it goes. Everywhere. Bumping into things. Falling over. Banging into walls. Certainly, I did that as a young boy. It was a different kind of experience movement without order. But then there was the track. Guided by the twists and turns of the tracks, there was something to that train that drew me. Perhaps it was an innate joy and satisfaction in predictability, order, design, movement. Who knows? Why do we like rhyme and alliteration? A mystery. A house can be well-ordered and possess an attractive design, but it does not move. Yes, there is something in movement. A train, or a person on the trail, moves through space, and is predictable. A lizard, darting on the rocks, is a wonder, but like my train without a track, it has no order; it is unpredictable.

Years ago, I read an interesting bit of information about our ability to detect movement. We are able to instantaneously detect movement, even small movement, like an ant crawling on the floor, even if it is in our peripheral vision. Yes, I have noticed that. It is quite amazing. I have often seen a falling leaf or crawling ant out of the corner of my eye, and marveled at my ability to quickly notice it. The explanation was that movement might presage danger, or the opportunity of food. What might the attraction of the path presage or signify? Perhaps that a path, by its very nature, is well-traveled, and is therefore a marker of relative safety. And further besides, that it often leads or enters into somewhere useful or beautiful. And further still, that it offers mystery and adventure. What is around this bend!? (But why are we drawn to mystery and adventure?) And perhaps also, that it provides the parallel play of life. (But why are we drawn to the parallel play of life?) I think of an ancient world and my primitive ancestors, inviting me to find myself in them. It is said that if we go far enough back in time, there we will find the protist, the common ancestor of all plants and animals. It may seem bizarre to think that I can learn anything about myself by looking at a protist, but there is something in movement itself. There is the movement of liquid passing through membranes, of pressure, of gravity, of the very tiny mechanisms that are present in the very complex. The very large is built upon the very small, and so perhaps there is a very direct connection between the very simple and the very complex in ways that are still mysterious. Water moves. We are water. Water forms rivers. Rivers are paths. The slow-river ride.

And perhaps there is no connection at all. And if so, then in the end, the attraction of the train is a mystery, and the attraction of the path is a mystery, and the attraction of rhyme and alliteration is a mystery. But listen to me talk! I should just enjoy the trail. Through a canopy of cartusian mock oak trees just above my head, the sun casts a scattering of glimmering streaks. I stop to enjoy the piercing quiet punctuated by the myriad sounds of the canyon: a bird darting among the trees, others singing, chipmunks scurrying in the underbrush. I continue along the path — my haunted house ride, my safari train tour, my slow river ride! The valley opens up. I take a deep breath and enjoy the panoramic view. In the distance, a series of cumulus clouds are born from behind the mountains and traverse lazily over the valley.

The other day I was watching the reality show My 600-lb Life, and the woman being profiled said something rather interesting.

“I don’t know what I am without food. I don’t know how to cope with my life and existence without food. People kept saying, ‘It’s not going to be as bad as you think,’ but it’s even harder than I thought it was going to be. If food makes me happy, then the happy me is gone without food.”

I thought, gee, that sounds like me. All I have to do is substitute the word “poetry” for “food”?

“I don’t know what I am without poetry. I don’t know how to cope with my life and existence without poetry. People kept saying, ‘It’s not going to be as bad as you think,’ but it’s even harder than I thought it was going to be. If poetry makes me happy, then the happy me is gone without poetry.

Well, at least I’m not damaging my body by writing poetry and I’m not in danger of dying if I don’t stop, but clearly there is a tradeoff. I write poetry. Maybe I could be doing something else. Something more productive. Something more mainstream. That identity thing again. I like calling myself “a poet”. I don’t know what I am without poetry. But really, shouldn’t I just get over myself? What’s poetry doing for me? There are lots of identities. Maybe I can just reinvent myself without poetry. How essential is an activity to identity? I look out at the canyon. I stare. Nature makes you stare. In the distance, at the end of a long stretch of valley between canyon walls, the sun is setting. I grab my water and take a drink. The setting sun, the clouds, continue to create the kaleidoscope of colors, the ever-changing landscape.

I pitch my tent, make a fire, and watch the sky fall softly orange and into black. Nearby, a withered devil tree, its gray, desiccated branches twisting and spiraling upward, wraith-like, against the black of space, and the tiny uppermost branches, against a glowing moon almost full, standing out in full relief. Remarkable. I stare and enjoy. I stare at the moon, the trees, the fire. I stare and I wonder why. Why do I stare? I think it all wants to tell me something. I think the moon, the trees, the fire, the quiet sounds of night, all want me to think a certain way. I think they have answers for me. I think they have the answers, and it seems like they are always just about to give them, but then nothing! Nothing but the crackling of my fire, the glowing of the moon, the quiet sounds of night, and tiny branches. Ahh, but these are all good things. I like it here by my little fire after a day of hiking. I like it here in Black Forest Canyon. I like staring at the moon. I like the quiet sounds of night. I like the trees and the glow of the moon behind tiny branches.

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