Always
at the pass the car would go silent. They’d been chattering, commiserating, and
wondering at life. The pass was where all commenced in pondering internally, their
heads hurting a bit from all of the talking.
On the way, she marveled at the gigantic rock formations.
Rolling hills covered in green tall grass. She’d never seen anything like it.
Velvety and cozy.
The incline
became so steep that even the big strong engines of today chugged up the
highway slowly. She thought of the settlers in their covered wagons. The women
in their stifling garb.
She wondered if the Indians foresaw it all. Physically and
spiritually.
Physically, she picked out which
mountain peaks they would have placed themselves on, to keep a lookout for the
packs of wagons coming in.
Spiritually, she wondered if they
could feel the fear from afar. If the most they could hope for was to die with
some humility.
The car reached the tipping point of the incline on the
highway. Down into the valley they went. And like a roller coaster the milk and
honey fantasy came flying at them. Fields and fields. After all the concrete
and asphalt.
They only stayed one night in a small mining town on the
other side of the Sierras. It snowed in the morning. Just a dusting. She inhaled
the air when she awoke with delight. They’d slept on the porch. After all they
weren’t wed; so he slept on the floor at her feet and she slept on the couch.
She awoke to find him gone and took a deep breath of the air and could see the
trees surrounding his grandfather’s property without lifting her head from
where she lay.
She missed
the East coast, but mainly for the humidity, and for the possibility of snow.
Or rain, something other than the dry, unforgiving heat that pervaded southern California where she now lived.
On
the way back, again silence at the pass. This time after many hours of
soul-searching talk. Tears welled in her eyes. They’d been talking about
orphans because they all had some in their respective families.
All of the
lives and stories had parallels. Parallels that seemed like messages from
beyond—or at
least that’s how it seemed to these three in the car while driving through the
valley.
She thought again of the Indians, and the pain that seemed
to hang like a disgusting smog-filled bog of despair. Just beyond the south
side of the pass.
All that
drama and this is what they did with it. An asphalt trail smack dab in the
middle of the thing. Forget Dead Man’s Curve. That was past at the pass. The
least they could’ve done was keep it all beautiful. Instead there was such
misery that they had to name it the happiest place on earth.
What would
the Indians have thought about the concept of happiness?
His father interrupted the silence as they approached Dead
Man’s Curve.
“You see that
abandoned water tower?” he pointed toward it, “Used to be a restaurant, right
at the top of that hill.
Back then,
cars overheated from the pass and they had to stop to take a break.”
