Becoming Frozen

by Jill Homer

  *****

  The eruption of Mount Augustine wasn’t so much a bang as a chronic cough, like a lifelong smoker casually emitting phlegmy barks at regular intervals. After its initial early-morning eruption on January 11, the volcano continued to belch ash throughout the day. A milky haze hung in the air, and a film of fine gray dust coated the snow. A local radio station broadcast warnings for residents to cover all of their electronic equipment in plastic and avoid starting their cars, because volcanic dust can clog hoses and tear apart engines from the inside.

  A heavy fog draped over the neighborhood the following morning. When I walked outside to grab the copy of the New York Times that we had specially delivered every morning, it wasn’t there — ash fog canceled car deliveries. But as I breathed moist air, the fog didn’t seem too insidious. Shards didn’t rip up my lungs, and dust didn’t clog my sinuses. I hadn’t been told not to come into work, so I prepped my bicycle with extra chain lube, then strapped a pair of goggles over my eyes and a scarf over my mouth for the commute into town.

  I arrived at the office to find Carey balancing on a stool outside the front door, covering the entryway in duct tape. Tire tracks from her truck were visible in a thin layer of ash dusting the parking lot, which was otherwise empty.

  “Um, what are you doing?” I asked as I wheeled up beside Carey.

  “What are you doing?” she exclaimed as she glanced at me through the eye of her massive roll of tape. “You’re riding your bike? You’re not even supposed to go outside. You know this ash is just like tiny shards of glass, and it gets into your lungs when you breathe.”

  “I brought a scarf,” I replied with mock indignation, gesturing at the fleece bunched around my neck, although I’d long since pushed it away from my face since the fabric made it too hard to breathe. “And goggles. And anyway, you didn’t tell me I shouldn’t come into work.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you to ride your bike to work. Jane called and we’re shutting the office down for the day. Augustine went off again this morning and it was a big one. They’re expecting the ash cloud to move over Homer in less than an hour. I covered all the computers and sealed the doors. You should do the same when you get home. And for god’s sake, don’t ride your bike around in this. I don’t want to have to put out an ad for a new arts reporter because you went out and choked on volcanic ash.”

  “Okay, but I still gotta ride home,” I said with a shrug.

  “Oh no, you can’t do that. Throw your bike in the back of the truck. I’m headed home right now anyway.”

  Carey took the long way around Diamond Ridge in hopes of getting a better glimpse of the ash-belching island southwest of Kachemak Bay. We parked at Bay View Drive and looked toward the blurred horizon. Morning fog had cleared out, revealing the first sunny day in what felt like weeks. But a high, gritty haze obscured the winter sun, transforming it to a crimson bulb. Across the bay, we could see the indigo silhouette of Mount Augustine, with an equally opaque plume rising into the stratosphere.

  “That must have been a big eruption,” I said as Carey cracked open her window and pushed the big lens of the newspaper’s camera through a narrow opening. She fired off a few clicks but seemed unwilling to venture outside the truck. Bright orange specks shimmered on the northern face of the mountain, and I squinted in an effort to discern whether this was lava or my imagination. Homer often felt like the end of the world, and it was eerie to witness a live volcano spewing fire and blackening the snow.

  Augustine was far enough off shore that scientists assured residents there was little threat to human life outside the polluting effects of the ash cloud. Still, planes throughout Southcentral Alaska had been grounded, offices had been shuttered, and the radio repeated strict warnings to stay indoors as long as Augustine was active, which could continue for hours or weeks. The well-oiled machine of modern life still creaked to a halt amid primordial natural forces, in Alaska and everywhere else.

  Carey dropped me off at the end of Trail Court. A fine layer of gray dust had already collected on the bike during the short time it sat in the back of the truck. I wheeled it toward the cabin just as Geoff emerged wearing his standard winter running outfit: a loose pair of thin polyester pants, a thin fleece jacket, light trail shoes, thin gloves, and a gray buff wrapped around his head above a curly ponytail.

  “You’re going running?” I asked. “You know that the volcano went off again, right? It’s not safe.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Geoff said as he pulled his buff over his mouth to demonstrate his version of the same breathing mask I had constructed that morning with a scarf. “The gym isn’t open so I’m going to get in my run today.”

  “How long?”

  Geoff shrugged. “Not long. Eight or ten miles.”

  “What about the ash?”

  “It seems to be settling,” Geoff said. “The radio said that the last eruption is blowing northwest of here.”

  With that, he took off up the driveway, with a loud crunch of snow echoing under his feet. As he turned the corner out of sight, I considered his resolve. As soon as he committed to run the Little Su 50K, he formulated a structured training plan that appeared both effective and grueling. On days that the Homer High School gym was open to the public — Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays — he drove the thirty-minute, round-trip commute to town to lift weights for ninety minutes. One day a week, he went to the high school track to complete speed-work intervals, even amid driving rain and white-out blizzards. Two days a week, he went for runs of various lengths on roads and trails, increasing his mileage by small increments each week. He always saved one day for fun “cross-training” activities such as skiing or biking along the Homer Spit with me, and had one day reserved for a rest day, although he often went skiing on those days as well.

  His dedication reminded me of something I’d forgotten during our four years together: Geoff was an athlete. He was a talented cross-country and track runner in high school, racking up a number of state titles and wins in several distances. He earned an athletic scholarship to Syracuse University and ran cross-country while studying engineering. During his freshman year, he trained constantly but couldn’t achieve the same level of success he enjoyed in high school. This only drove him to work harder, and for nine months he did little else but run, compete, and study. This only left him dejected and exhausted, and burnout raced through his nineteen-year-old body like a brush fire. He took the summer off to drive across the country in his car, and didn’t enroll in any classes in the fall.

  Geoff also quit the cross country team, citing injury, but later admitted his injuries were minor, and his quitting stemmed from a desire to be free from a structured and oppressive routine. He officially dropped out of school and continued to take road trips throughout America in his diesel Volkswagen Jetta. He drove hundreds of miles each day and camped in sandy desert washes, high mountain plateaus, Midwestern corn fields, suburban culverts — really, anywhere he could bed down for the night free of charge.

  For money, Geoff went into the jewelry business. His wares were handmade, started by tying hemp string to pins in his car’s dashboard. Then, while balancing the steering wheel with his knee, he wove the strands together in intricate patterns. He added plastic or clay beads, and sold the finished necklaces and bracelets for a large profit at outdoor concerts and music festivals. His travels were largely dictated by bands’ touring schedules, although he often found time to spend a full day hiking, or camp alone in the desert and read classic novels that he purchased at used book stores. “Nothing good has been written since 1970,” Geoff explained to me once when I was rifling through his piles of dusty, dog-eared hardbacks that carried the distinct aroma of my great-grandmother’s basement. He refused to retract this statement after I reminded him that most of Edward Abbey’s work was published after 1970.

  Geoff preferred to sell his jewelry at Rusted Root concerts. The venues were smaller,
the music was more organic, and he had become friends with the band members. However, like any good businessman, he followed the money — large crowds of college students and trust fund hippies attending stadium concerts headlined by Phish and Dave Matthews. He let his auburn hair grow long and grew a bushy beard, both of which he occasionally twisted into dreadlocks. For several years he operated as a vagabond, living as though he was penniless while raking in tens of thousands of dollars in jewelry sales. He put his earnings into savings as insurance to continue his lifestyle indefinitely. He no longer had any interest in an engineering career, winning races, breaking distance records, or anything else that he pursued in his youth. He just wanted to be free.

  I met Geoff in late 2000, five years after he dropped out of Syracuse University. During his traveling years, Geoff didn’t involve himself in romantic relationships, and didn’t make many new friends. He preferred solitude. When he did crave the company of others, he reconnected with a group of close friends from his childhood. One of these friends, Jen, had since relocated to Utah to attend the University of Utah, and had taken up residence with seven other students in a communal housing situation in Salt Lake City. This group had become my friends through Terra Firma. Although I graduated in the spring of 2000, I continued to live in Salt Lake City, work part time as a graphic designer, and show up at their house on weekends to hang out or join camping trips.

  In the fall, Geoff decided he needed a few weeks of downtime, and came to Salt Lake to visit Jen. He and I first met at the Terra Firma house while playing a board game called Settlers of Catan. The housemates had recently become obsessed with this game, and invited me over to learn how to play. A wild streak of beginner’s luck led to multiple wins and Geoff’s first direct words to me — “You’re some kind of Settlers genius.” This “genius” never managed to reveal itself any further — it really was beginner’s luck — but I’d managed to make a good first impression.

  Our paths crossed many times in subsequent group events — at the University bowling alley, at a favorite Mexican restaurant, and on a long hike in the San Rafael Swell. But months passed with little more than brief, casual exchanges. It certainly wasn’t a flash-fire romance — perhaps because we were both shy, or more likely because there wasn’t initially an attraction. Geoff wasn’t interested in relationships, and I was still hung up on Mike, who still hadn’t returned after two years in El Salvador.

  Geoff and I continued as acquaintances until Christmas Day, when I flew out to New York City for the holiday break. One a whim, two days earlier, I’d purchased a plane ticket to visit Jen in upstate New York, neglecting to look at a map and realize that New York City and Syracuse weren’t exactly neighboring communities. She laughed about the misunderstanding and recruited Geoff to pick me up at the airport. It was a five-hour drive to La Guardia, one way, and my flight was more than four hours delayed. At the time Geoff barely knew me, and I didn’t expect he’d wait around at the airport if he’d shown up at all. I was twenty-one years old and terrified about being all alone in Queens, and walked out of the gate nearly in tears. To my surprise, Geoff and his unruly red beard were waiting for me in the terminal, which at that point was nearly abandoned. It was two in the morning, the day after Christmas, we had five hours of driving in front of us still, and there was a blizzard on the way. We still spent the rest of the night wandering the deserted streets of Manhattan, listening to each other’s stories.

  Our magical holiday in New York would have made the perfect setting for a romantic comedy: hiking along the frozen waterfalls of Ithaca, playing a riotous game of Spades with his parents and siblings, ringing in the New Year at a thumping college party in Oswego. Still, even this adventure failed to bind us together immediately. Six more weeks went by before Geoff sent me an e-mail to my work address, professing that he had a crush on me. We arranged for a first date for the evening after Valentine’s Day, attending a cross-dressing-themed house party with the Terra Firma crowd. “St. Hades Day” was intended to be a celebration of anti-romance, where women dressed like men, men wore prom gowns and bikinis, and we burned the relics of past relationships in a backyard bonfire. Geoff and I spent the whole party talking, and kissed for the first time while I was wearing a fake mustache, and he donned a sundress and gaudy blue eyeshadow.

  The following night I took him snowboarding at Brighton Ski Area, with two discount tickets for the night session. Geoff had never ridden a snowboard before, but had recently purchased his own board in the interest of taking up the hobby. I was a terrible instructor — having taught myself the techniques, I had no idea how to explain them — and Geoff was recklessly nonchalant about careening down the slope at high speeds. Florescent lights flooded the slopes, casting ruts and other hazards in confusing shadows. On the third run, Geoff took a cartwheeling fall that resulted in a badly hurt wrist. At first he brushed off the injury, but soon pain reached the point that he could no longer tighten or loosen his bindings. Still, he downplayed the severity and told me he just wanted to warm up at the lodge for a while. I selfishly continued for several more runs on my own, each time returning to check on him in the lodge. He insisted I should continue snowboarding. “You already paid for the tickets. One of us should enjoy this.” We finally left around 8:30 p.m.

  “Do you want to go camping?” Geoff asked as we drove down the canyon in his Toyota pickup. Although I offered to drive, Geoff seemed loathe to let me take the wheel of his truck, and gingerly handled the wheel with his swollen hand.

  “Obviously,” I replied, and we drove four more hours to Goblin Valley, in the red rock desert of Southern Utah. In the meantime, any remaining shock wore off and Geoff’s wrist was enveloped in pain. We’d planned to hike into a cave amid the sandstone formations, but he could barely drive anymore. I suggested returning to Price and finding a medical clinic, but he brushed off this idea because he had no health insurance. Instead we crawled into the back of his truck and started kissing. Geoff told me, “This is what I’ve always wanted — a truck, the desert, and a beautiful woman to share it with.”

  Temperatures dropped well below freezing that night, and we cuddled against each other because we had no sleeping bags. Under the cold sunlight of morning, it became clear that Geoff’s wrist was broken. His hand was badly swollen and bruised, and the joint itself was crooked. It looked as though each bone in his arm snapped apart and then realigned several degrees in the wrong direction. Geoff insisted he could set the bone and brace it himself, and never went to the hospital. His wrist healed crookedly, and years later still caused him pain when lifting heavy objects. But he did continue snowboarding, and he did continue to invite me on beautiful meanders through the desert. I began to realize that this was all I ever wanted — a truck, an adventure, and a man to share them with.

  The significance of certain life events often don’t register until much later. I’d come to think of Geoff’s broken wrist as symbolic, beyond the folly of youth. The still-crooked joint reminded me of the sacrifices he made to invite me into his world, and also his stubborn refusals to acknowledge when he was in pain or needed help. Geoff loved me, of that much I was certain. But he didn’t need me. In his heart he was still the same independent spirit who drifted around the continent, eyes always fixed on the horizon, anchored nowhere. I was Geoff’s girlfriend of four years, but in many ways I was no different than his childhood friends who were now scattered all over the country. I was another person he could go home to, when the desire for companionship struck.

  We’d been in Alaska for four months, and Geoff was already formulating new ideas for the future.

  “I wonder if we should go live in New York City for a year, or maybe San Francisco,” he’d tell me. “I really miss Utah sometimes,” he’d muse. And sometimes he’d ask, “How would you feel about maybe hiking the Continental Divide Trail the summer after next? We could still come back to Alaska afterward, or not.” Although I relished Geoff’s zeal for travel and fres
h opportunities, it was becoming clear that he wasn’t setting the same emotional hooks into life in Homer as I was. Alaska seemed to be just another stop-over for him, a waypoint in the adventure of life.

  To me, life in Homer symbolized our life together. As he spoke about moving again, I couldn’t help but feel continuously unsettled about our status as a couple. One night I brought up marriage, and Geoff just laughed. “We’re already together. Marriage doesn’t accomplish anything,” he said.

  “Do you think you’ll ever want kids?” I asked another time, and he shrugged.

  “Probably. I’m not sure, though. I can’t really say why I believe this, but I always suspected that I might not be able to have children. Not that I’ve been checked, but …”

  Geoff and I had never been particularly careful with birth control, so this notion that he might be infertile wasn’t implausible. As for myself, as soon as I entered puberty I’d become increasingly more ambivalent about breeding. The idea of bringing demanding and dependent children into my life was more repulsive than enticing, and at age twenty-six the motherhood urge had yet to kick in. If any partner at the time told me he had no personal desire to have children, I would have embraced his decision and declared myself officially child-free. But Geoff’s way of questioning his physical capability to reproduce struck me as strange, as did his ambivalence about marriage.

  “Just what are Geoff and I doing?” I sometimes wondered. “Why is it that we all try so hard to adhere ourselves to one person, as though nothing ever changes?”

  “It’s because every time we rip ourselves apart, the scars remain,” I thought. But Geoff was different — he didn’t seem to regard potential emotional pain as a risk. He was willing to accept the consequences of falling in and out of love, just as he happily accepted that his wrist was permanently crooked, that it ached after long days of hammering at construction sites, and that arthritis in his later years was all but guaranteed. Wounds were never the end — he knew he could prop up the broken pieces himself and keep moving.