Between Yellowstone and Jackson

August 4, 2014

After several attempts, I neatly stack the kindling into a pyramid and light the paper bag underneath. I look over at the campsite next to us. The empty brown plot of land is an imprint of the campers’ home. It’s strangely sad—their leaving, the emptiness, the fleeting temporality of knowing them. The sky opens up slowly, to drops of tender rain. I turn to Pamela, “Get on the road? I think I’m finished with Yellowstone.”

We quickly pack the hammock and the left over wood into the ELF and head to Jackson, WY. We stop frequently on our way out of Yellowstone because the tourists stop to see the lone bison grazing on the side of the road, again. I sigh happily once we exit Yellowstone. Pamela and I talk, a lot. She is a fantastic storyteller. Together, we process heavy shit—our past relationships, our future desires, and the beauty of the present moment.

I look at Pamela and I say, “I loved him with all of me. The cancer journey was the most difficult journey I have ever been on. And we went through it together. Being on the edge of death with someone, and fighting for life, is the most connective and powerful experience. And I am so very thankful he is alive and cancer free. I will always love him. I want kids one day. We just didn’t connect about that.”

Tears well up in my eyes as they always do when I talk about Johnny and our time together.

“Leaving great love is hard. There are lessons in the leaving. Well, sometimes there aren’t. Sometimes it just sucks. If there are lessons, what are they?” She asks softly with kindness in her brown eyes.

“Maybe we were brought together for the cancer journey, so we could both learn deep lessons about caring, and giving, and pain. Fuckin’ shit.” My voice cracks and I throw my head against the back of the car seat. “That parting was painful. And messy. I think it was the most painful experience of leaving I have ever felt.”

Pamela allows me the space to process with a tender smile. I fall silent, remembering.

“Shit,” I say with a different candor.

“What?” she asks and looks up from the map.

“My windshield wipers stopped working. Ah, 70’s Elf. She’s showing her age.” The heavy rain sticks to the glass, beads and rolls with the winds. Visibility is low. “I can’t see,” I say.

Pamela’s cool demeanor prompts me to stay calm. I look between the beads of water to the other side. I can see through it. I settle into the idea that I won’t have wipers for 50-80 miles.

“Maybe I can just lean out the window and wipe it for you. We need one of those squeegees.”

“I think there is a gas station a little ways up the road. Maybe they can help us.”

The gas station attendant, a pimply faced twenty something is no help to us. We are directed to a service station. When we pull our ELF up to the garage doors, the two attendants start to smirk. The ELF is funny to most people. She quirky and the fact that two women are trekking through the United States in her, is also pretty funny. I head to the restroom as Pamela explains our situation. The men open the hood, look at the engine blankly and close it back up. Pamela asks, “Do you have a squeegee you can sell us?” The man laughs and goes to look for an extra one. He finds a beat up squeegee with a red handle. He says, “ It’s going to cost you.” “How much?” Pamela asks. She digs into her purse and says, “I have four dollars.” She pulls the wrinkled bills out of her wallet and hands them to the amused man.

As we get back in the truck, the man with the grey mustache asks me from the passenger side window, “What are you going to call your book? Two tough chicks?” I look at Pamela confused. She explains, “I told him you were writing a book about the journey.”

I laugh loudly. “I like that. We are tough. Not too sure about the ‘chicks’ part.”

I continue driving. And every so often, when the visibility gets too low, Pamela leans her entire body out of her window and she wipes the glass clean. Seconds later the glass filled again. Rinse. Wipe. Repeat.

“Isn’t this a great lesson about clarity,” Pamela says with a sly grin.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, we have to work through the difficulty to see again. And sometimes you need your friends to help process through it.” She holds up the squeegee with great pride.

I smile, lean forward and squint past the storm. Pamela rolls down her window with a familiar squeak to pull the rain off the glass once more.

She settles back into her seat and happily begins to hum, I Can See Clearly Now.