Untitled photograph by Susann Rose
The Descent
Memory lies, or possibly paints the picture in softer tones—pastels rather than primary colors. This trail was decidedly more primary than pastel. I grabbed a sapling to steady myself as I picked my way over rocks and the tree roots my daughter had specifically warned me about. A squirrel at the top of the sapling shot over to a branch in a neighboring maple and scolded me, his tail jerking with every bark. His message was clear: “Fuck you!” or perhaps a more pleasant “Get off my lawn,” for the kinder gentler crowd. A drop of sweat escaped from under my hat and rolled down my face. “Sorry, little guy,” I whispered. To speak out loud seemed almost sacrilegious, though the trees buzzed with sound. Added to the angry chatter of my squirrel, cardinals, sparrows, cat birds, and a wood thrush all peeped, cheeped, and warbled. A blue jay shrieked in the distance. Jays always sound aggressive and annoyed no matter the situation. Other squirrels, not so consumed with annoyance, raced through the branches, dropping leaves and disturbing branches that marked their passage.
The air was cool under the green canopy of the trees. Slices of sunlight broke through small gaps in the leaves. The last time I was here, it was another June day like this one. The occasion was a first date, in 1983, with the man who would become my husband–now ex. “Let’s go on a hike,” he’d suggested.
“I know a place,” I said. Which I did—sort of. The location was out of town—a forty-five-minute drive west through cornfield country. I mentioned to a couple of friends what I had in mind—a hike in remote woods. “Let’s hope he’s not an axe murderer,” one of them said.
“It’ll be fine. I’ve been there a couple of times,” I responded, not addressing the possibility of murder. Nor was I concerned about my vague memory of the location of the hiking site or if I could find it again.
My date was an out-of-state city boy who had been a boy scout. Still, scouting didn’t prepare him for what happens to every Hoosier kid once they obtain a driver’s license—getting lost among the corn and bean fields at least once or twice. He began to get nervous when we passed a directional sign pointing to the Illinois state line. Nerves verged on panic as we rambled along gravel roads, rocks crunching under the tires, cornstalks obliterating the horizon.
“Do you know where we are?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” I answered.
“Are we lost?”
“Not really. I know how to get back,” I responded as I focused on the road that meandered its way around the fields. His apprehension about the unknown clashed with my more casual attitude. Flexibility, whether about a plan or a rule, was a feature, not a bug, in my character. His approach was much more rigid. The yin and yang of our relationship worked surprisingly well. Until it didn’t.
When I was young I didn’t worry much: if a strategy didn’t work out, I’d make another plan or gravitate to something new. I worry a lot more these days. The options seem more limited. At twenty-five the world is like a walnut waiting to be cracked open to reveal sweet, nutty fruit. With time I’ve learned some of that fruit is moldy and bitter. It’s the bitterness that eats me up with anxiety now—thinking of all the bad or inconvenient things that could, but probably won’t, happen. I’ve always heard that age makes one more uninhibited and carefree because, I suppose, there’s less to lose. Another myth bites the dust.
That summer day forty years ago, my future husband manufactured enough anxiety for both of us. Eventually we found the dirt lane—more like wheel ruts—and the sign that marked the spot. Nothing lost by our cornfield wanderings but a bit of time, something I’d known all along.
Today, I was back, invited by a friend to hike our aging selves to the bottom of the ravine. This trip, GPS guided us to our destination without a hitch. “It’ll be good for our balance,” she said as she sold the merits of this hike.
It was. In some places along the trail, I needed every bit of balance I still possess.
My friend is a serious hiker, actively seeking parks and recreation areas for her rambles as well as joining online hiking groups to learn of the best spots and make new friends. I have a more agnostic approach, sticking to trails I can access easily and quickly—familiar haunts with no surprises. I was a bit surprised when she called and invited me on her latest excursion, but I enjoy her company, so I accepted.
Once we arrived at the trailhead and completed the ritualistic wipe-down with mosquito repellent, I placed a straw bush hat of my dad’s securely on my head and tightened the chin string. It was authentically Australian, proven by a small metal kangaroo attached to the hatband—or maybe not, as prior to his death, my dad was an enthusiastic Walmart shopper. All the same, having a bit of him along for the ride was a nice feeling.
Within a few steps the slope opened before me, revealing the character of the ravine, sandstone-riddled and pockmarked, dotted with caves. Rocks long buried, now laid bare, thrust to the surface with the shifting and shuddering of the earth, green moss growing on their northern faces. I, too, unspooled as I made my descent, my timeline exposed from who I was to who I am, gnarly as the tree roots I carefully stepped around. I am like the rocks, formed and changed by forces beyond my control. That there are more days behind me than ahead of me is a concept I can’t quite grasp, even though I’ve already lost friends I adored. I always thought I’d be the exception—a concession made especially for me. That possibility seems more unlikely with each passing day. Still, I am healthy enough to do these hikes and almost everything else I want to do—though more slowly, with more cursing and fretting. It’s a gift, but one I no longer take for granted.
My friend lingered behind, her camera recording small details along the path that can easily be missed, overwhelmed by the metamorphosis of the landscape from agricultural countryside to a much more primitive environment: small clusters of native flowers, an interesting knot in a tree, or a swallowtail butterfly resting on a leaf.
I continued ahead and stopped at the bottom of the ravine. I took a seat on a log by the creek. I listened as the water trickled over the stones, as it has since the stream bed began to form thousands of years ago. Maple, oak, and sycamore soared above me, filtering the light. Blue dragonflies flashed over the water and around my head. It was quiet and eternal; nothing mattered; the world above doesn’t exist in this spot. It’s a place to cleanse, to regroup and rest. I wondered how long I could sit on my log and not see another soul—days maybe. I think of the people who knew this place, long before the corn and bean fields. Their arrowheads are scattered along the creek bed, a reminder that they too once stood here
My friend called. I arose from my perch, and inhaled the damp earthy odor. I hoped to tuck it away, save it for a later date when I might need a shot of serenity. It was time to go.
Crooked Hearts Press publishes forgotten, overlooked, and thus disappeared women writers over the age of 55, alongside veteran writers we recognize for their excellence.
In Barbara Allen’s Joy Falls, the most recent Crooked Hearts Press publication, a traumatized family has an elusive desire for normalcy that is found in lyrical moments and humorous problem-solving. The novel is filled with characters who have the stamina for the chaotic present even as their personal histories invade. Joy Falls helps us, not in a self-help way, but in the way fiction helps through storytelling, interesting characters, and laughter. It is about the profoundness of children, the importance of humor, and what happens when we show up for our own lives.
"Barbara Allen’s gorgeous debut novel, Joy Falls, is a true knockout. Allen has created a vibrating—more than vibrant!—world in this comic-tragedy of family madness and love. That she can be so laugh-out-loud funny and heart-breaking and wise all at once never ceases to amaze me. As soon as I finished the book, I had to read it again. I so look forward to more work from her in the future!” -- Elizabeth Evans, As Good As Dead
Go to the Crooked Hearts Press website to purchase Joy Falls and other Crooked Hearts books.
Kaelin McGee (Casey) Shipley is a writer from West Lafayette IN. Since her retirement from the financial services industry in 2021, she's had the time to develop the natural flair for storytelling (embellishing a tale or, as her daughters say, "making things up”) that she inherited from her Irish grandfather. Her pieces often center around historical incidents or personal experiences. Her work has appeared in The Northwest Indiana Literary Review, Litbreak Magazine, and the Big Windows Review among others.
Susann Rose writes and lives in rural Sonoma Country after decades of living abroad. She has published in Creative Nonfiction, Geneva Writers Offshoots, Bern Writers Anthologies, Sparks blog and others. Her upcoming chapbook is a collection of poems and pictures by artist Monika Teal. She worked as a professional translator for many years, has two wonderful dogs and a cat that thinks she's half-dog.