by David Yeadon
The tale of our odyssey across America from five hundred feet must be left to another time. It was a fascinating journey, a photographic record of esthetic experiences rarely matched by earthbound adventures. At the outset I had merely wanted to fly for a few hours, a few days, to get my world-wanderings in a fresh context and think of future directions for my life and travels. I had never expected to discover such new joys in the experience of flying itself—flying as an end rather than a means. My notebooks (rather shaggy things now, full of untidy scribblings, stained by spilled coffee and oil from a leaky engine pump) still tingle with a novice’s sparkle-eyed euphoria:
—slow curling rivers—gentle essays in time—histories written clear on the earth: oxbows, old courses with the sinewy shadows of snakes; ancient lakes, now limpid marshlands with flurries of egrets rising to meet us
—spuming deltas with silt patterns like duck feathers; the thwack of midday sun on still water, gleaming like a new Porsche; forest-shaded curves where the bass lie cozy in the slow cool depths
—a range of snow-crusted peaks, seemingly another blending of cloud banks, then slowly taking on a sharper form of arêtes, ice ridges, and glacier-gouged ravines
—rising through gauzy morning mists, slipping off “the surly bonds of Earth,” up into the purest blue that goes on forever.
—a swirl of silver-gold dunes, soft sensual curlings and rounded shadows—the pretty petticoats of shattered peaks
—the bare beige endlessness of sagebrush country, but also the strict patterning of the bushes, each occupying a precise and evenly spaced territory, geometrics of logic rarely discernable on the ground
—faint radial scratchlines on a dry scorched land coalescing at a muddy brown waterhole in the middle of nowhere
—into canyons of cumulus, playing tag with the giant thunder-heads, skimming the black tentacles of a storm column, feeling the life of this fleeting creature illuminated from within by its own lightning
—seeing our cruciform shadow, projected giant-size by the sun on the clouds, haloed in gold; suddenly from an insignificant speck we become manifest
—the unearthly solitude of flying above the clouds; it all belongs to me, utter limbo-land; the ultimate “I am”
—a sprinkling of ponds and little lakes, hardly visible at first across the dun Maine tundra, suddenly sparkling like scattered pearls, then neutered again as we fly on
—the gleam-sheened waterworld of the Atchafalaya bayous where the hard earth dissolves into droopy cypress swamps and blue-green blankets of reeds and fields of floating hyacinths
—jousting with the Arizona buttes, red-ochre remnants of ancient plateaus, pointing skinny fingers at the sky, chiseled reminders of time passing, skimming them with our wingtips
—close enough to see the flash of a vulture’s eye—and then off again in wild trajectories, deeper into the wilderness, not wanting to leave this empty place; waiting to hear its secrets
—our shadow dancing over the swirl and switchbacking of the Utah wilderness; no roads, no tracks, no sign of human life for hours, a place left to play by itself, rejoicing in its sinewy contortions, raged up in tectonic fury, cracked open and flung apart by the elements, gashed and exposed—a warrior torso of a land, garlanded with ribbons of colored strata, crowned with shattered pinnacles and cooled by storms, roaring across its scoured belly and screaming through its broken teeth
—up here, floating, apart from it all, indivisible; a sense of greater perceptions—hierarchies of knowingness just beyond the next truth. Like the paradox of particle physics, never quite getting there, merely seeing deeper and deeper, space beyond space into the inner universe with its constellations of quarks (strange, charmed, and all those other multicolored entities), mesons, gluons, neutrinos, gravitons (and even antigravitons), matching the complexity and scale of the outer universe itself—an equilibrium of endlessness
—up here, floating, you see it all quite clearly. The clamor of experiences, the search for something forever out of reach, out of comprehension. Seeking the mind of God in the fragmentary illusions of everyday life, playing with his possibilities, cracking open the creaky walls of knowledge and flying out into pure beingness…
I wished it would all last forever. But it didn’t, and finally we were back to the swelling hills of home, bosky with copses and stringy streams and things with associations, leaving all the wild places behind for a while.
But happy with a thought.
That the wildest places of all are deep within and there’s no end to the exploration and enjoyment of their mysteries and magic.
And that is sufficient.
For the moment.
And finally, something I wrote a day or so after coming back home to Anne, the two cats and the lake….
Here
Once again
Smelling the grass above our lake
(rippled now and then with turtle bobbings)
and the burps of bullfrogs
and the unraveling of silver clouds
and the low pale light across the hills
and the sun in the wings of dragonflies
and the shaggy shadows of evening woods
and the woolly-misted air
and the stalk-stiff herons, like meditating monks
and the bobbling butterflies
and the sound of beetles sucking sap in the fat leaves
and the wind, knobbly with raindrops
and all the warm familiarity of this piny place
glimmer-green and fusty with ancient wood rot
and Anne
boiling the kettle for a little tea-and-talk
between the books and books and books
and all the fresh expectations
of new perceptions
new journeys
new wild places
and another new today
tomorrow.
WORDS OF THANKS
Scores—actually hundreds—of individuals showed kindness, encouragement and support during my travels and many others contributed to the completion of this book. In particular I would like to thank:
All my guides: Angelo, Tin and Pan, Khun, M’stafa, San and many more who helped me through all the difficult times.
Ali, Abdulali, Ahmed, Fatima, Rahman, Saiid and all my other companions on that memorable if ill-fated Saharan journey.
Amanda and Joel who gave willingly of their time, energy, and love in Kathmandu.
Dick Anderson, President of Lands’ End, who provided so much early support and enthusiasm for this project.
Antonio, the little boy in Costa Rica who nursed me back to sweet sanity with bananas, papayas, and Coca-Cola.
Audrey and Lisa whose constant cries of “what’s next?” helped me leave the comforts of home in search of even wilder places.
Monica Beliveau-Tobey for all her affection and encouragement (and excellent copy-editing) throughout this long project.
The Bog-Trotters of the Pennine Way who taught me to tip-toe the tussocks with the best of them.
Breda from Eire whose bus-bound company for two long days in India made the journey delightfully tolerable.
Marion Campbell of Harris, Scotland, for her explanations of the art of tweed-weaving (and for my enduring yellow finger).
Larry Campbell for insisting I see the wonders of Costa Rica for myself.
Tom Cronin with WGBH of Boston, who gave me the opportunity to ramble on about Haiti and my travels for one of his many TV documentaries.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the pleasures of his book “The Lost World” and for the dreams he made me dream (and Charles Arkwright Gurnley for making the dreams reality).
Dick Davies, the Welshman, who learnt his lessons of life through white-water adventures-and passed them on to me.
Dimitrios on Kea island, Greece, for teaching me the true spirit of island life and releasing my Zorba.
John Dixon of Northumberland, who showed me the secrets of the local sheepdog.
/> Ed Duffy. “King of Cashmere” and raconteur extraordinaire who made the whole Inner Mongolian journey possible (and Yves and Barney, our stoic companions).
Joe Foley Sr., Lisa Salerno and all the others for transferring a tattered manuscript into perfect galleys.
Annie Griffiths, the National Geographic photographer who made the Pennine Way adventure much more meaningful.
Stephanie Gunning of HarperCollins who, with gentleness and grace, made the deadlines bearable.
The Haitian houngan and mamma who allowed me to sit (and dance) through a night of voodoo, deep in the mountains.
Linda Halsey, of the Washington Post who has been a trusted source of support and encouragement throughout, along with Renee and Casey.
George Harrington, who taught me how not to wrestle, Cumberland-style.
Kirk Horton, in Bangkok, for his hospitality and his tolerance at my over-use of his jeep.
Doug Inkster, who took me on an odyssey of flight and helped me discover the wildest places of all.
The Jain sadhu in Bombay who explained so much in a single afternoon.
Aubelin Jolicoeur (alias Graham Greene’s Petit Pierre) for his perceptions and perspicacity in Haiti.
Julio and his father Thomas for making the few months Anne and I spent on Gran Canaria one of the best times of our lives.
Mike Kaye who welcomed me as a guest to his Tortuga Lodge and George, my intrepid guide and fighter of turtle-thieves.
Khusrow in Tehran for guiding me during difficult times and to my friends in Rasht on the Caspian Sea who have all suffered so much in the recent earthquake.
The Maharaj of Jodhpur who entertained me regally during my stay in his city.
The Maharao of Bhuj who gave me new insights about western living.
Hector Macleod in Ullapool, Scotland, for encouraging me to explore the Outer Hebrides.
Mary MacDonald of Harris for her tales, tea, and homebaked shortbread.
Lea Macnally for his guile and guidance in the wilds of Torridon.
Charles McCarry of the National Geographic Magazine for his trust in me and his enthuiasm for the Pennine Way story.
Mike, the Australian, for a long night of learning on Hong Kong’s Lantau island.
Richard Morse, owner of Haiti’s Grand Hotel Oloffson, for many valuable insights of island life.
My Mongolian hosts who let me see the fullness of their lives in that great grassland emptiness.
To my late Mother who joined me in Torridon and made the whole journey magic.
Sue Noli of HarperCollins for the fun she had with the book jacket design.
The officials of Indian railroads and “special permit” officers who tolerated a true TET in their midst.
The nameless Pineys who helped me home safely from the depths of the New Jersey Pine Barrens.
Guillermo Santamaria for his tales of Costa Rica on a hot afternoon in San José.
Maria-Jao Santos and her two lovely daughters for making my brief stay in the Azores so memorable.
Al Shackelford of Lands’ End for his careful editing of my “Time Out” pieces, and his humor (and his Morris Minor).
Tom Stephenson and the British Ramblers Association for helping make the Pennine Way and all those other long distance footpaths a reality.
The little saintly tanka-painter in Kathmandu with whom I should have spent much more time.
Mike Ventura, a fine photographer, who always gave much-needed encouragement during the dog-days.
And special thanks to:
Hugh Van Dusen, my HarperCollins editor and friend, who often wondered if this feckless wanderer would ever return from his wanderings to tell the tales (and when he did, entertained him royally in the house by the pond).
And finally-to my wife-Anne
(once again) for everything.
About the Author and the Illustrator
David Yeadon is the author/illustrator of fifteen travel books, including New York: The Best Places and Backroad Journeys of Southern Europe. He writes regularly for the Washington Post travel section and other travel magazines. He lives with his wife, Anne, in Mohegan Lake, New York.
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Copyright
THE BACK OF BEYOND. Copyright © 1991 by David Yeadon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-197661-2
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