Road Trip

So there I am, stand­ing, arms slack, on High­way 97. US 97 makes up the spine run­ning through the mid­dle of Ore­gon. I am some­where on the cer­vi­cal part of that spine up near the Wash­ing­ton bor­der. Night’s com­ing on. I am sur­rounded by wheat fields and trucks are rolling along the two lane, ghostly and angry. I am just stand­ing there on the side of the road, look­ing at a fire burn at the feet of Mt. Jef­fer­son, the glow inten­si­fies as the night comes on. The smoke is sickly, sweet, and for­tu­nately, mostly blow­ing another way. I get enough of it though, to feel the pri­mal urge to run from it. I imag­ine the deer are long gone from the band of burn­ing trees, smaller ani­mals too, though some will get caught.
The wheat shifts around me, swish­ing in the wind. It sounds like the poly­ester slips that ladies in the Bap­tist church wore under their skirts. The wind and wheat sound like peace. The slips sounded like tor­ture, even when I the kid in Sun­day school won­der­ing what was caus­ing all the com­mo­tion under there.
The trucks make me and the van shake a lit­tle, blows me back a lit­tle, but I don’t move fur­ther back. They see me, I feel them. It’s a moment. What goes on in that green lit cab? Who cares? The quiet and the night imme­di­ately fill in the well left by the pass­ing truck. It’s dark now except the fire out­lin­ing the burn­ing trees 20 miles away. I turn away.
The fields to the east are hold­ing the last bent rays of light. The rays do their last deed and then are swal­lowed by widen­ing shad­ows in the hol­lows between the rises and steeps in the fields. It is very beau­ti­ful. I want to cry over it. I don’t. I close the door to the van, my water bot­tle full. I take a long pull. The air, even at night, is dry. I am rest­ing, awake as I am. I can feel myself draw­ing in the energy from the clos­ing day, from the night com­ing along, from the quiet of soli­tude most of all.