Tonight I’m at a new campsite. It’s in the national forest, but the dogs bark in the distance like it’s a whole city neighborhood. Earlier I could hear the much more nearby campers, but not see them. I only see forest. There are plenty of ambient highway and road sounds.

It’s late now and the moon is bright and all the humans are quiet but the dogs are still at it in the far distance. I’m inside my car with the tent up when I’m suddenly aware of not being alone. I mean theres always bugs, but something else now. And then I hear it, a weird growl that doesn’t sound so much menacing as wary. Because it sounds rather like a dog, I immediately just say “No” in my most reproachful, also hopeful, voice. I hold as still as one can while shaking, barely breathing, listening hard. I have bear spray in reach but I’m unable to muster the will to move before the growl comes again, this time somehow more plaintive. It has to be a dog, I tell myself, as I again intone a “No” that would freeze any good boy. Then I move quickly. Toward the bear spray and my headlamp, immediately searching outside the car from its safe-ish confines—there’s still a tent at the rear—for the source of my adrenaline rush. I put the lamp in the brightest setting and shine it kind of wildly, searching for movement. There’s nothing. No hurried shadow, no quaking shrubbery, not even a neighbor calling their pet home. The far away dogs resume their barking. Are there more now than before? I shine my lamp uselessly into the underbrush. What the fuck just happened.

If shoulders could talk I would lean in, listen to the years. Sometimes the stretch between hip and rib whispers stories. I want to know how thighs get their living, what makes feet move. My ears yearn to press against spine, hear the details. Hands in hair, fuzz, fur. Skin smooth and rough, scarred and sensitive. The cracks and creaks. Tell me everything, please.

I don’t do much with any kind of consistency, but I sure do love celebrating the moon. Here’s my favorite when she’s big and potent, which should peak for the Harvest Moon about twelve hours from this posting. This ritual is relevant whenever the moon looks full to the human eye, so timing needn’t be precise. Buen provecho.

We laughed together on the phone. They had seen so many varied stunning artworks, described their detail well while I imagined. It’s called the Harvest Moon because it helped farmers work late to finish their work before the first frost. In the high desert the sun has retired but I sure can see around me. A solitary coyote howl careens sharply through the open sky ahead of the distant highway buzz. Across that street is Mesa Verde. Three moons ago I cried heading up, sang in the canyons. At this campsite she and I talked for eight hours one lazy day, I swaying in my hammock. Returning, to somewhere around 6,500’, the warm breeze reminds me that my world is the same. Only this moonlight demands to bathe bare bodies; in my mind it’s yours with mine. Ninety nights, or a lifetime: it took another week for my heart to catch up. Not much, so much, has changed.

I couldn’t tell when twilight ended. The moon took over where it left off. Out here I scratch down the days with a burnt stick on a rock. The cows came to say good morning, then the quails said go away. All the humans want to know is whether I will stay. Did you see that little kid held up to the net by another? He didn’t make the basket but he sure didn’t seem bothered. They hurt my face we laughed so hard. I’m smiling at the thought. I want each to be whatever we are, and nothing that we’re not.

If I couldn’t play along that time. If I cried in bleak frustration. Know it was your love alone that ripped through my pretensions. I’ve been in one spot several nights, and only just heard an owl. The haunting hoots are calming and I know you’re with me now.

You call me from the road, cat stowed in the backseat. You’re crossing this whole continent in late summer heat. The cruelty of apathy had me startled yesterday. There’s so little that needs doing but it all feels in the way. I need to eat more protein but I don’t want any meat. I need to drink more water but I always have to pee. They say they really want you but then they never call. I don’t want what doesn’t want me; I don’t want much at all. When you get to where you’re going, do you think you’ll know? I thought I knew all summer, but perhaps I moved to slow. If hurry is what works then I guess I’ll always fail. In Minnesota I began to pray, under strawberry-sized hail. Are you going through Chicago? Seeing friends in St. Louis? The country spreads out far and fast when you come from the East. I’m starting to familiarize my eyes with local birds. I don’t know if I can say the same when racism is ignored. There’s pros and cons to every place, and this one is just new. But it’d be much more lonely if you weren’t moving too.

heat thick. air thicker. sticky hot stillness

deep rich greens. deep dense muck

giant muskrat. roseate spoonbill. wild boar

wet winds ravaging regularly

floodwaters expected always

shore birds siphon marshes

alligators seen from highways

predation in daylight

slow but steady

wet and ready

living coastal strife

I see shooting stars fleeting like the happiest memories among the myriad, familiar. I cannot sleep without fresh air, no matter the temperature, central air feels strange. I know the moon like a last living grandparent, taken for granted, whispering memories. Outside the night is full of organic dim, rich dark, deep shadows, comfort. I tense, feel trapped in interior darknesses, false blackout, strange quiet. In the breathing night, living creatures never tire of noise making, simply repeating in the darkness: peep, chirp, croak, howl, hoot… sounds of lullaby. I fear domestication.

Who said “go for it”? Not I, nor anyone else. And yet I’ve gone. I’ve canceled plans and broken promises. I’m trying on my own. Not quite alone, but alone. The applications want all of my names and also my address. I don’t live anywhere right now. But I think I want to start. I chose this place for beautiful, sound reasons. I chose it to follow my heart.

There’s too much in my brain now that I can’t think about. You’re dancing in the desert like a dog finally let out. Walking in the woods I startled two absconded cows. A human pair will pledge next week—I’m sad to miss the vows. How’d you find a place to park that night? It made sense to keep on driving. I love to see your sleepy face, to hear my baby sighing. This adventure doesn’t suit most needs, but Texas might surprise ya. Most states have something worth a night. I know a spot in Nebraska. Roaming ain’t so special to the folks that do it often. I want to know I saw it all before we shop for coffins.

I fell out of a tree I’d climbed. Couldn’t breathe, it felt like hours. The one in your back yard fell down but missed the lines for power. There’s nowhere really needs me now though I hadn’t planned to cut ties. She said she did the whole thing right and we could find no lie. The elk bugle in the morning among various birdsong. The rodents are busy gathering. I hear the winter’s long.

come to me unwashed, having only bathed in your own scent. I want. your sour that sweetens all the filth we can make. come to me dirty, not showered for days. let the stink reach me before your lips. our first moments of blended sweat, combined heat come to mind. taken by the smell of you I cannot help remembering. wanting. come to me.

I did some research about bears in Rocky Mountain National Park. By most accounts there are not very many, and they’re all black. By most accounts they’re also all on the west side of Rocky Mountain National Park, which is where I’m camped. Black bears are probably the cutest bear in North America, as well as the one you’re most likely to encounter. In the US over the past 25 years, the number of people killed by black bears annually averages to <2. Black bears are known for their shyness, docility, and curiosity. Because they would be interested in my food, and I don’t have a bear box, I knew I would have to sleep with the car closed at night. Since it’s like 45F overnight at this altitude, that is no problem.

There were storms throughout the afternoon and evening, so I set up my tent to hang out inside the car for a while. I also made the risk-aware choice to eat a tuna sandwich dinner, thinking my bed time would be before a bear’s curiosity could be piqued, if at all. All I needed to do was close myself into my little home. I just didn’t close the car in time.

Around 9PM, after finally putting away the K-drama that had been a delightful distraction from period cramps and altitude yawns, I heard something. I listened closely to a movement of brush just beyond the clearing of the camp; I could hear that it was a swath much wider and lower than could be caused by anything with which I am familiar. I thought “bear” immediately and sniffed the air to confirm—I have heard you can smell those furry fatties before you see them. I didn’t scent this guy though, and wondered about it for a second before another sound came clearly to my ears: the snuffling of a snout. I was not surprised.

I started yelling from inside the tent even as I grabbed my headlamp and pointed it out. I chose a series of random shouts, including but not limited to: “You’re not welcome, go away!” and “I’m REALLY BIG!” and “I have bear spray, can we not?!” I considered putting on loud music but quickly realized I wouldn’t be able to discern the bear’s presence if I blocked my one reliable sense. Even with my headlamp on high brightness I could only make out the movement of the grasses about ten yards away. At one point, forgetting that my job was to scare this animal, my light found the right angle and caught a glimpse of reflective animal eye. It turned away quickly and I immediately recommenced my shouting.

Several years ago I was on a hike in Shenandoah National Park with two friends when we realized two bears were just ahead, not far from the trail. We were all pretty citified, and completely inept outdoors it turned out. (Later we would get so lost on a different hike that hitchhiking back to the car would become the most reasonable option.) I thought if we stayed the course we’d be okay, especially since other hikers up ahead were definitely just stoked to see bears. One friend pointed out that it was early spring and they’d be hungry, while the other observed that it looked like a mother and cub. This wasn’t a situation where we could backtrack, so the latter of these friends chose herself the largest fallen branch within eyesight and held it at the ready. All blond, my friend looked like a child playing at being a viking, using both hands to brandish the almost-log as she valiantly took her place in front. We moved slowly forward at the ready, and my other friend suddenly began sing-shouting, Rah rah rah-ah-ah, Gaga oo-la-la, Rum-ah, rum-ma-ma… I know that song too well not to join in, dancing a little and rubbernecking completely as we passed the bears. I will never forget how absolutely terrified they looked.

Tonight was different. Tonight, I had courted a bear’s curiosity, flagrantly consuming my unfamiliar and delicious foods. As the immediate stand-off continued, I was growing more aware of my predicament: in order to rest in any way, I needed to leave the car to get my tarp and tent put away. I had attempted to close the trunk from within, but alas. And I certainly wasn’t about to step out of my car with the bear still there, no matter how respectfully it stayed distant or adorably it snuffled. Even as I recalled Shenandoah and sang some “Bad Romance”, I wondered if I would be able to convince this animal to get gone. I continued shouting and insisting on my big-and-tough-ness, emphasizing the bear spray opportunity that awaited my visitor. I think that’s what did it—finally the bear wisely chose to avoid any discomfort this evening. After much hemming and hawing among the grasses, my unwelcome guest let out a massive and equally unforgettable huff that was truly impossible not to anthropomorphize. As the exhale ended, the moving brush started to grow distant. I listened intently, holding my entire body still until I was sure the bear had truly retreated. Still I continued noisemaking, somehow even more erratically than before. I leapt out of my car clutching the bear spray and disassembled the tarp and tent one-handed, throwing everything unceremoniously into the front seat before shutting myself in safely.

I’m a free bitch, baby.

In the morning I went into the brush to investigate. Almost immediately after stepping past the forest edge, I found shrubbery disturbed for several feet that looked a bit like someone heavy and less than three feet wide had paced in contemplation for a few minutes. I was unsurprised that there weren’t any visible tracks in the mess of flattened grass, but the earth had been heartily disturbed by rain. Piecing scratches and scuffs together, I can guess that the paws of this little guy were maybe a bit shorter than 4”. Maybe I should’ve fed the wee babe.*

*I kid. Never ever feed bears.

If my cheeks would hurt from laughing. If we fucked until we cried. If we called each other out but stayed on the same side. If I held your hand at dinner. If you took me to the show. If all these things aren’t lovin then I guess I’ll never know.

Two of my favorite books feature this forgotten former outlaw town: Dalva by Jim Harrison and Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove. Both are wholly fictional, and the town is now a regular degular middle America place. Happily, Ogallala still boasts Boot Hill Cemetery. There one can find local indigenous Pawnee and Cheyenne interred, right among the infants, actual outlaws, and gun shot victims of the nineteenth century. This is also Arapaho land, although it is most famous for being a cattle drive stop in those wild days.

I am in love with nature’s fecundity. I am first a child of Earth whose feet found solace in damp, soft soil. Petrichor is a word as useless as snow, but everything it describes is my favorite fragrance. Moisture in the air soothes my skin, bounces my curls. Softens sharp edges. No single color pleases me more than the exuberant green of a wet new bud. Fecundity is fresh, fertile, pulsing. It is moist, ready. For growth. I want my environment so teeming with life it’s unnerving.

I drove through the town of Jordan then I texted my best friend. I drove through the town of Lindsay and I called my crush again. I wondered when you’d been a poet, if you’d written of our time. I didn’t know Montana was so big, I didn’t know that I’d been lyin’. If North Dakota gets a bad rap it’s cuz nobody stands still. Understatement is a glory in this world so often shrill. I wondered how they told that fable, but they said I’d never know. All hung up, I got waylayed and couldn’t make the coast. If standing still is possible I’d like to try it some. If you’re ready to sit near me I can promise not to run.

Obsidian is my playfully autobiographical soundtrack to 2022. Thus far, I am stoked to be sharing brass from Louisiana, a few country bangers, some righteous frustration, and of course, romantic notions. I hope you enjoy.

Curator’s note: I genuinely until today thought the John Lee Hooker song lyrics were, “So you like to suffer / So you like to be alone”. The best mondegreen of my life perhaps, but the truth is much more sinister (and obvious!). It still kinda fits, so it stays.

Attention, friends! Please, if you feel like making a playlist about your year or whatever: gimme.

It has been a week and I am ready to post about a bummer. I need to be as clear as possible from the outset, here: the odds remain in my favor. Most people are not intentionally cruel or out to do harm. Very few decide to do otherwise. In a cumulative year of travel around the US, I have had some scary moments, all at my own hand. As for strangers, I’ve experienced my fair share of abject disgust. I have also met countless harmless, well-meaning, and even kind, people. This was my first stranger danger.

Content Warning: The following is a first-hand account only 24 hours after a shitty situation. It is emotionally taxing. (It is also largely unedited.) Nothing and no one has been harmed, to my knowledge, in relation to this event. (At one point toward the end I even stopped to shoo a mole off the road.) That said, I left out some details because they’re now hard to fathom. It has only been a day—I’m still a little shaken. Do not read this if you could also be shaken. Know instead that I made the right choices and am safe. I feel good about that part, and you should too. Trusting oneself is paramount to survival.

The sun came out this afternoon, but it has been rainy up near Telluride, in Diné and Pueblo territory. These passing storms are the first rain I’ve seen in months—truly not unwelcome.

Two people have helped me protect my skin from sun, this year. Both were strangers mere hours prior to my asking for their assistance. The first, under the searing sun of the Gulf of Mexico Coast, was a mother who’d been grieving one son’s death when the other brought her to the beach. There is a part of me just desperate for touch, and the rest of me is terrified of it. I don’t mean anything other than simple, human touch, preferably affectionate (not to be conflated with sexual). The past few years have had many fewer hugs, so many fewer than before, not to mention simple gestures of affection. For me personally, virtually no snuggles. Obviously most folks were never welcome to touch me anyway, but lately that lack of contact is taking its toll. It had a lot to do with her being a mother that I was able to ask Janet to cover the skin of my back that I couldn’t reach: a small area between the upper and lower straps of my swimming top. Just enough space to keep me from going crazy if somebody rubs my fur the wrong way. Just enough space to overwhelm me with longing if the hands work well. Janet’s sunscreen application was fine. I thanked her, laughed at my own nerves, and went to play on the beach with her son’s dog. It would be over a month before I needed to ask someone else to do the same.

In the meantime I was lucky to enjoy several truly high quality, sometimes even loving, hugs from other humans–including a toddler!–and of course dogs along the way. Among these last was Abba, a four month old Basset hound rumored to have been a low energy pup until she’d met her owner, the clerk at the tobacco shop, and danced for the first time. Dogs are often more difficult to leave than humans.

Over 1,100 miles from the bit of sea I shared with Janet and her family, after many more miles of wandering and roaming, I again found myself needing sun-protection in unreachable places. I threw the sunblock in my bag and hoped I could get my bathing suit on surreptitiously; I was in the truck less than five minutes from having been invited, and the boat a half hour after that. Suddenly I was sitting in the stern of a Boston whaler, cruising at about 13 knots over some sparkly blue relative of the Colorado River. Our group was mostly a pontoon boat called Party Barge that held nine retirees who maybe never worked to begin with. When we finally dropped anchor and joined them, there were immediate offers of fancy tequila. At the outset I had supposed there were good candidates for the help I would need, but the journey went on across the water for a while before we settled on that spot. At over 7,000 feet of elevation in the early bluebird afternoon, I had to look to the vessel I was in: it was up to me or the captain of El Barco to prevent injury between my shoulder blades. Had I known how well this guy could apply lotion, I might’ve opted for the sunburn.

I say no a lot. Most often to myself, and frequently in favor of safety on the road. Today I trusted, and it worked out fuckin gorgeously. This pic was taken whilst cruisin’ on a tributary of the Colorado River. I did not get sunburned, nor did I lose Booboo’s hat.

San Juan National Forest has some open cattle ranges. As I sought my bedding place last night, I passed cows of all ages enjoying their dinners, some in the road. After a while, I chose to park in a spot with the fewest cow pies, though I could still hear their evening lowing.

Investigating my chosen home and attempting to find the laughing flicker* nearby, I came across a little watering hole. It was pretty full but not very cute, and I was glad to have my tent far from whatever the water might attract bug-wise.

In the stunning dawn hours came the bellowing of ruminants. “Moo” is deeply insufficient for the drawn out moans of free cows. Powerful, guttural, rib-rendered groans whispered and rang from all around, expressive, intermittent. I wondered if they were just sending their good mornings out into the forest. But then, halfway through my morning yoga routine—indeed, just as I was stretching from cat into cow!—I heard the hooves. Coming toward me.

Mamas paired with little ones were heading my way from several directions on the straightest paths to their tiny pond. Some were in a hurry, others plodded along. All kept their distance, stayed skittish. I sat quietly on my mat and wished them all good morning. One or two paused to look at me, big cow eyes curious, and I pointed toward the watering hole, as if they didn’t know: everyone has gone that-a-way. They seemed to appreciate the gesture, somehow, and mooved along.

I can hear the herd poking around their water. The smell of fresh pies isn’t completely unwelcome, I suppose. They continue arriving from all directions, and I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of any of them. The flicker is still chuckling from somewhere up there, whenever it isn’t pecking at the trees.

As I write this! An all-ages group of five cows comes toward my setup in the gentle way only cows can. Before I know it, one of them lets their curiosity take over, moving in to investigate my breakfast arrangements. I am still in my car when she does this, so that my reaction must be all the more startling as I scramble out, reaching belatedly for their gentle ways to calmly say, “No, no, that’s not for you.” Having heard my movements, these animals were already over it, nosing at each other as they meandered away toward some grass.

That same bird, still unseen, is laughing relentlessly.

After these strange introductions, we settled into the morning. There were never fewer than a dozen cattle nearby, at one point a full two dozen! Within sight of my setup, I could watch their rough bovine bodies rubbing on trees, weird big tongues taking turns tending one another, hooves stomping through bushes as though in china shops of munch-able greens, bending their front legs into a full kneel before dropping giant rears onto the dusty ground to rest. The whole scene punctuated at random intervals by various and unmelodious groaning, all of which I thoroughly enjoy. Somebody among them had a little cough. Once in a while a solo cow would wander toward me, pausing in quizzical silence to stare. They seemed wholly unperturbed by any noises I made, but movement caught my hoofed friends wary. Thus, I went about my own day emulating their calm, watching my new pals loll in the sun and shade of their predictable routine.

*I would soon discover that “the flicker” was in fact several nuthatches. I’m learning.

I hiked long and hard in this place where so many have come before. For most of the trek I was engrossed in moving forward safely, breathing efficiently, and seeing whatever I could take in. Intermittently I’d find myself singing Counting Crows’ “It’s one more day up in the canyon..” Then humming all the parts I don’t know, which turned out to be the rest of the song except the very last line. I caught myself doing this a few times before it clicked: I finally understand why you have to go up to get into the canyon. And why you’d be so long before seeing the ocean again. To my recollection that song is a fairly mournful, beautiful tune. I remember wondering about that specifically confusing line when it played every day on the radio for like a year. Gladly, I still don’t know most of the words, so I’ll make up new lyrics sometimes. Mainly I like to sing the “lah dah dai dai” parts. Up in the canyons.

On my way to this weird landform I passed a sign proclaiming “Yard and Food Sale”. Yes, please! I left with two new-to-me hats and a “Navajo taco”.

Later, I drove the nearly-70 miles to Mesa Verde, which truly cannot be done justice in any foto I am able to take.

Driving up the winding, glorious roads of the national park, my breath caught at the surprise of seeing Shiprock again. So far away, floating in the desert landscape.