Where The Rambling Things Are

In an effort to assuage my guilt about not knowing enough about this place, I drove up to the City Creek trails to walk around tonight. My own hesitation and a stop and chat to drop off Matt’s car keys left me minimal sunlight, as did my added confusion as to where I should park. The entrance to the trail area said “No Motorized Vehicles,” so I parked across the street on the berm and walked in, only to find a bunch of cars. Wtf.

I hopped on a trail that took me to the top of the edge of this cliff overlooking the city. The neat thing about Pocatello is that it sits in a little valley, and just before dusk the yellow hills around us glow orange. Walking up the trail, I was turned away from them, and I got to the top just in time to see the orange blink out and fade to a dark-grey-brown, so it was “orange, turn, orange, brown,” and like a swimmer’s gasp it was gone.

Then you notice even more how the mountains fall around you, and really the closest image is dark cake fondant rippling, fabric-like, but stiffer. And I found myself thinking about this little blog, and how I’d love to write this, flipping through the folds of my mind searching for some sound simile to make it come alive… mostly because I’d forgotten my camera. But even then I was writing this post in my head, feeling the twinge of repulsion you get over how solipsistic something like that is.

And then it’s so strange how music can change just what you’re thinking or feeling about a place or a time. I was concentrating so much on what this image was, when I suddenly realized just how alone I was, and thought about a phone call I received from a good old friend this week who reminded me of a good old line from Doug Martsch I used to love:

“Don’t you get sick of it? Stuck in the thick of it. Making new friends you don’t need.”

I didn’t know he was from Boise.

And then Broken Social Scene came on and all I could think about was that damn dirty Frenchman, and how if I was lost, then so was he, flying back from Italy to Pittsburgh this week. I stuck my arms out (like I often like to do) and reached my finger tips out to everybody sprinkled all over the place who I’d lost touch with. I started to fly back down the rest of the trail, zigzagging, dragging and kicking my feet. It was getting dark and any bikers I had seen around were long gone now.

And like a book in reverse, next was “Winchester Cathedral” and I could only think about how stupid I’d felt when I made B listen to it and he said “It’s not that cool. I get that you thought I would like it because it’s about religion being awful, but I just don’t really like it.”

And how stupid I felt now, chasing the last of daylight down the trail, and, feeling my latent fear of darkness creeping in, I started to run. Running from the dark? Or the memories? To not forget this? Or just to my car which by now I was certain had to have been hit or broken into or just completely evaporated so that I’d be stuck on this trail forever. And there were rocks and low-hanging branches and my eyes on the trail and then in front of me and then the trail and then, does it split here? Do I even have depth-perception? A slip on some gravel and a dodge of a stick andandand!

The song ended, and there were people at the trail head. And when they turned on their car I could see down the gravel path to the road. And when I got there, my Jeep was waiting.

I got in and zoomed away toward Benton Street. On the overpass, my iPod died.


2 thoughts on “Where The Rambling Things Are

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