“At first I didn’t know it was fire.”
I’m in a writer’s workshop led by Mary Sojourner, with several other
eager disciples. We are by no means novices – the group (OWAC) is not for
wannabes; but established, credentialed writers, editors, and even a scruffy
publisher who looks like he just rolled in on the “3:10 to Yuma” – greasy hair
slicked away from his leathered face, conspicuously sporting a tall felt bowler
and long duster, despite the heat.
We’re in the back dining area at Tamarack Lodge, a boxy room
lined with knotty pine paneling and old black and white photos, and crowded
with tables and chairs. Orange glass lamps are hung too low from the ceiling.
We are seated in uncomfortable straight-backed chairs at a cluster of plywood
tables (clearly meant for linens) drinking too-strong coffee.
Mary is seated in front of a picture window, through which I
can see leaves dancing in the wind like jingling bells. But she’s back lit, so
I can’t see her face or expressions. I merely see the silhouette of her round
head bob as she doles out anecdotes, wit and suggestions. She’s wise and
irreverent. Candid. A little inappropriate. Citing the works of Kerouac and
London, she remarks, ‘And that was before hallucinogens,’
(drawing out the word into a seven-syllable, five second utterance), ‘in the
days of alcohol, peyote and very bad dope.’
She tells us to slow down. She doesn’t have the answers, she
says. She provides a writing prompt, forbids us from stopping, sits demurely (she
will bristle at that suggestion, no doubt) keeps track of our 20 minute time allowance,
and then we read.
“At first I didn’t know it was
fire.
I was at the tail end of the trail
ride, eating the dirt of the preceding horses: 20 clip-clopping hooves stirring
up the chalky loam on the track to Rainbow Falls in the Eastern Sierra. I
rubbed my tongue over the grit covering my teeth, as the rolling, tumbling
clouds of dust blocked the guide from my view.
I elected to bring up the rear, I
said, because I wanted to trail Lindsey, who had never ridden a horse before;
and her mount – a fat-assed mule named Hillbilly – was indeed taking
advantage of that; routinely veering off course, going right when the rest went
left, and stopping and starting at will. So I stayed behind to marshal her …But in truth, I wanted some
solitude. I am a sailor and the ocean is my first love. So I desired a little
time alone – an ‘affair’ if you will – with the land.
I was out of earshot of Bobby, the
trail guide, and missed his snippets of information about the trail, the
Sierras, the falls, the fire. So when we bent around the granite outcropping,
and surveyed the mountainside covered with scorched tinder – so many sticks
poking up into the bluebird sky; so many logs laying catawampus on the ground –
I was aghast. The hills had looked so peaceful and green. But these stumps looked like legions of tombstones.
Like death.
Eventually the word worked its way
back. It had been a fire, 20 years ago, that had devastated this sweep of
mountains, rushed through the valley, and left these skeletons in its wake. And
here – two decades later – was the most nominal regrowth. The slightest hint of
regeneration. I never knew a fire could cause such devastation for so long.
So I suppose I am
to be writing something fictitious.
And how it would be clever to segue
into some tale of trial and tribulation … about how the forest fires of our
lives can leave decades of devastation, and how hard it is for something new to
take hold in the charred soil. And yet, how a plush carpet of green is pushing
up between the remains …”
We sit in somewhat humility and awe, presenting our work
with apologies and disclaimers, and even though her criticisms are meager (she
says nothing about either of the pieces I read. I am either very, very good, or
very, very bad) I walk away feeling inspired.
Mary gives me a lift back to the hotel, moving the two
stuffed toy ‘guardians’ from the passenger seat to the debris field in the back.
We talk easily (‘You’re poor?’ she asks. ‘I’m a writer,’ I emphasize. She nods.) and I notice more than one
similarity between us (which I will not reveal, to preserve our dignity). She gives me a book (“Delicate”) which she
refuses to sign (‘W don’t sign for friends, only customers.’) and I feel as if
I want to run back to my room and write. I don’t ... but I know I can.
