by Chris Baron
until we find the spot
where the trees are so thick
that every direction looks the same,
and we fold into the forest.
Jorge finds a deer trail,
a tiny path, barely noticeable
through the thick ferns and bushes.
We follow it down
toward the valley,
our legs scraping
against rocks and bushes,
the sun dropping
while more fog rolls in.
We come to a clearing
with four boulders
like moss-covered
gnome houses
in a half circle,
a miniature Stonehenge.
We should camp here, Jorge says.
We unroll our packs.
I follow Jorge,
do what he does.
a. Gather wood.
b. Put small rocks in a circle for the fire between us.
c. Clear brush.
d. Use a tarp. The ground will be wet tonight.
e. Keep watch.
Then, quietly, I whisper the Shema, a declaration of faith … as much as I can remember.
Roasted Hot Dogs
Jorge tells me to gather wood,
so I fill my arms
with sticks of all sizes.
Near an old log,
I step into a spring.
It’s covered in leaves,
hard to see,
and my feet
are soaked with mud.
When I wander back,
I see that he’s gathered at least
fifteen times my load.
He makes the sticks into a small tepee,
tells me to get matches,
and I pull out the big box from my pack,
strike one. Not yet! he says.
light
blow
fail
again until it works.
The orange fire rises in the dimness
of the evening coming on.
Trees fade into the sky,
the boulders illuminated in orange and yellow.
Starving,
we stretch long wire hangers
and roast hot dogs
until they are a little burned.
Jorge slides his into slices of bread;
I eat mine right off the hanger.
I put my feet near the fire,
but they can’t seem to get dry or warm.
Crush
Tell me about this diet, Jorge says.
It’s the first time he’s asked me.
In the orange fog,
I tell him about all of it,
growing up in New York,
always being overweight.
I list the names I’ve been called
and how I had to talk to all those doctors.
It’s sort of funny now when I say it to him, and we laugh.
Then we’re silent when I tell him about the bike path,
and about hurting myself,
and The Diet Book.
About Lisa,
about my father.
Later,
I eat celery stuffed with peanut butter (Level 3),
and Jorge burns marshmallows.
I think I do like her, I confess.
Like a crush?
Yeah, I say, I guess.
I forget sometimes,
because Jorge is so tall,
that he’s younger than us.
I don’t have a crush,
Jorge says. What’s it feel like?
I point at the fire with my
celery stick. Like that.
Like fire. All over the place,
it feels good from far away,
but you can’t really get near it.
Prayers
By the time we finish talking,
we are in our sleeping bags,
near the edge of the slowly ending fire.
Jorge puts his carved wooden cross
next to his sleeping bag.
My feet are freezing,
and my head aches
from so much walking.
I try to get warm inside my bag,
but it isn’t working.
Can you say a prayer for me too? I whisper.
He does.
Visitors
The last embers
of the fire float up into
the starless sky,
and then, suddenly, one by one,
dark shapes skulk out of the fog,
long necks and stretched bodies
step slowly through the boulders,
quiet barks and grunts
from their low-hanging heads.
I hold my breath,
hide my head in my bag.
It’s a family of Sasquatch, or forest goblins.
This can’t be real.
I unzip my bag
just enough to feel
the sudden breath on my face,
of an unexpected monster,
a Tule elk above me,
his huge muzzle smelling me
from head to toe.
I’ve never felt so small in my life.
We stare at each other for a long time,
and I can see myself in his eyes
until he softly grunts, his eyes aglow
in the dying firelight, and moves on.
I watch them disappear,
one by one
in the dying firelight,
their bodies silent,
into the deep woods.
Hypothermia
When we wake up,
my feet are numb,
my head soaked,
and I can’t stop shivering
no matter what I do.
Let’s get going,
Jorge says.
It will warm us up.
So we pack everything
and start hiking,
my hands shivering,
my feet aching
in this impossible cold.
My head starts to feel
like fog is swirling
around on the inside.
Down the trail,
I start to see strange things,
like when you first
close your eyes before bed:
trees taking steps,
long arms and claws,
sometimes leaning over,
turning as we walk by,
giants in the mist.
My wet feet squish with every step,
my body so tired. I just want to stop.
Jorge is way ahead by now.
I see his blue backpack
turn a corner
on the windy trail,
sucked away
into the fog.
One
step
at
a
time.
Have courage.
I can’t catch up.
I can’t see Jorge.
I yell out.
How did he get so far away?
I can’t see past
the length of my arms.
My feet squish raw
in my soaked shoes.
Walk Walk
Walk until I’m exhausted.
Stop.
Along the trail,
a giant moss-covered boulder
sits alone at a gentle turn.
Sit with me, it says.
I should have eaten more.
Not enough water?
My head is aching,
pounding. I’m so tired,
shivering still.
I decide to listen to the rock,
feel my muscles melt
into moss and granite.
I look at my calculator watch,
but the numbers
are far away, and
my hands are shaking.
How far have we gone?
Where is Jorge?
I can’t feel my feet.
in this bed
of horsetail ferns
and short moss,
where a thousand ladybugs
swirl in an old log.
It’s so quiet.
Finally quiet.
I could sleep. Sleep.
Things That Exist
Ari?
Is it the rock talking?
I spread my fingers
on the cool moss.
Ari, the voice through the fog and forest.
Arrriii!
It’s Jorge.
Are you okay?
He puts his hand on my shoulder.
Sorry, I got lost too. You wandered
over here,
way off the trail.
Jorge takes off my shoes
and socks.
My … my feet, I say.
I can barely feel them.
He pulls a dry towel
out of his backpack
and wraps it tightly
around my feet.
My eyes open
wide, and my body
explodes into one icy shiver.
Then, suddenly,
the sun is coming out,
finding me through the trees,
and my head starts to clear.
Jorge talks to me
about hypothermia.
Are you okay, Ari?
You have every symptom.
Do you remember who you are?
I am okay.
But I feel different,
like the island
in the lagoon.
It’s meant to be
where it is.
There are things
that are true,
no matter what.
My body changing,
Mysterious World,
friendship,
trolls in the gallery,
boogie boards,
sleeping mats,
late-night laughing.
Lisa. Pick.
Gretchen.
Elysium,
drawings,
trees,
the ocean,
the voice of the rabbi
reciting scripture,
Hope in the Lord. Strength renewed. Soar on wings like eagles;
run and not grow weary, walk and not be faint.
All of this is real.
All of this brings me back,
still exists.
We eat almonds
and sugar-free jelly beans,
until my legs
aren’t numb anymore.
Mikveh
We walk in the bright sun.
Coastal oak and redwoods
are earth brown and emerald green,
grass and trees,
boulders and ferns,
this unexpected foggy summer
has watered the valley
into furious growth.
We look back
toward the main trail.
If we walked up now,
we could turn and go right down
the hill to the bus stop in a few hours.
Jorge holds up his sketchbook
like he’s reading an ancient chart.
This forest is not on my map.
We decide to keep going.
Down and down,
we slip away from the main trail
and finally to a pond,
blue crystal
and water glass.
It’s more like a pool
spilling out into tiny streams
across the valley.
I heard these places are out here,
Jorge whispers,
but I’ve never
seen this before.
Look at that! Jorge shouts.
A giant black bird flies across
the valley, too big to be a crow.
We watch it circle over the water,
then directly over us.
We lay our stuff on a boulder
near the water, take off our drenched
shoes and socks, and lay them across
the dry rock.
My feet finally warm in the sun.
We stretch our bodies
along the banks of the pond,
dip our hands
into the cool of the water,
splash it on our faces.
I watch my reflection
watch me.
I’m not who I once was.
I know all of my reflections:
the mirror in our San Francisco apartment
has one swerve in the glass that widens
what it sees.
At the Dolan house, the mirror
is hung too high,
so there’s only time for faces.
Lisa has a full-length
mirror in her room
that captures everything.
The bathroom mirror in the nursery
is giant and warped
and falling apart.
But there’s no fear
in this reflection,
just trees, glassy water,
a different me
against a bright-blue sky.
The more I look,
the more I think about who I see.
Just maybe
for the first time
I don’t overlook
or try to get away.
I don’t have to be my father
or perfect for Lisa
or anyone else.
Be myself.
Myself is okay.
I want this feeling to stay.
I want to know
that the next time
I look into those mirrors
this is the me I will see.
I take a breath, then
dunk my whole head into the pond.
I stay as long as I can.
Come up and take
another gulping breath.
Jorge! I say. The rabbi told me
that when I dunk myself in the water
and say certain prayers, it’s a mikveh.
It’s supposed to mean
I made a big change!
And then, more quietly,
Do you think I have?
He laughs and nods. He’s excited.
It’s called baptism! he yells
and walks over to where water
is coming out of my nose,
and I am coughing
and trying to talk all at once.
He pulls out his own little trinkets,
a map, his wooden cross,
a small vial, a smooth river
rock with the word faith
painted in white,
his sketchbook,
and two long pencils,
and sits next to me near the water.
On either side of the valley,
the trees flow down like
the river water.
I want to swim in the pond,
maybe go all the way under.
I take off my shirt.
I feel the air and the sun
on my skin.
It’s cold, Jorge says, already wading in the water.
I know, I say, but I’ve been wet all night
and all morning anyway.
I smile and look back.
Jorge smiles,
begins to say prayers.
I don’t know the prayers
for what I would say,
so I just listen,
say something in my mind to God.
When I think of God, I imagine the rabbi
telling me that I can do it,
that I already have.
I go in,
watch my reflection
in the water,
try to find the image
of the fat kid
staring back at me,
but this time it’s different.
It’s just the water that widens me.
I don’t see a fat kid,
not anymo
re.
I simply
see
myself.
I go deeper
beneath the pond water
until my breath has given
everything it has
and my face
breaks the surface
into sunlight and air.
Resting Place
I stretch out on the boulder
shivering, trying
to dry out in the sun.
Maybe that wasn’t the best idea?
We laugh.
I grab the last
of my beef jerky
from my backpack,
pull out
The Diet Book.
I need to look up
how many apples I can have.
Somewhere between
the jerky going into my mouth
and my body flipping over
to lie on my stomach,
the book
slips
from my hands,
bounces once
on the far side of the rock,
then down
directly
into the sudden
depth of the pond.
I watch it drop
into the water,
the yellowed pages
curling over each other,
trying to swim up,
keep it from drowning.
The letters
come off the pages,
float up,
disappear
at the surface
Ketosi …
Heavy Cre … carb …
Ba c n an Eg … imag i e … los ng … we g t …
I think about
going after it.
Fish it out,
dry it off,
start again.
But I don’t.
I leave it there.
A few feet underwater.
The doctor still smiling.
Thanks, I say,
but I’ve got this.
Its yellow cover
fading in its watery
resting place.
The Way Back
When we see the ocean,
we run along the open path
beneath the bright-blue sky.
Hikers take heavy steps up,
families, little boys and girls,
and all kinds of dogs.
Yesterday we were alone.
Today the trails are filled with people,
each climbing into something different.
I feel lighter,
like the change on the outside of my body