Place: Out the Window

Outside the window, there is an aging picture of a motley place. I’ve watched it passing, from the back seat of the car.

I’ve always felt safer behind the driver. So I took the left back window. Dad was in the driver’s seat. Mom played navigator from the passenger side, though she couldn’t read a map while moving. My brother sat in the right side back. And the dog, patrolling both windows, sat roughly in the middle. There was a battle over album choice. It was often resolved with the radio, until we’d lost the signal. Mom would call the time, even if we could have squeezed out another kilometer, before caving to Blue Rodeo. From then on, Mom glued herself to the volume control. My brother plunged into his Game Boy, resurfacing only for rest stops.

Outside the window, the road was lined in trees. Saplings were planted and relentlessly spaced in suburban fashion. They careened past the window with such forceful rhythm, I’d cover my eyes for fear of hitting them. Eventually they’d grow dense to form a wall. And behind them, another, then another, until they walked up the sides of the valley, and withered when hill turned to mountain. When dusk fell over the highway, Mom turned off the music and we’d sit in silence, watching for eyes in the trees. The dog, who had been enjoying the album, whined and pawed at my knee. The darkness made her anxious, as it did all of us. We knew too well that at dusk, the deer were unpredictable. By daylight, they stayed clear of the highway. They hid behind the trees, until the trees had burned to white, and you could see through them for miles.

Beyond the blackened pavement, and before the still burning flames, the valley was draped in a wiry coat of stumps. I wrapped a scarf around my nose and mouth, filtering out the putrid odor. Smoke had stifled the valley, and rangers led packs of summer travelers to safety. The trees looked as though they could crumble to ash, then blow away in a gust, and leave the landscape barren.

Where trees were few, one could be spotted from far. With its roots planted deep to withstand wind and drought, the tree stood proud. Like all objects erect along those prairie roads, the tree first appeared in miniature. It grew until it filled the window, and passed in an instant. It dwindled to a fleck in the rear view mirror. The car was getting hot. There was no shade to be found, and the road was unlikely to curve away from the sun. The dog was panting over my knee. I rolled down the window and we both let our heads hang out. The smell of warm canola wafted in from a yellow field. A yellow house stood in the middle. It must have been freshly painted, for it showed no signs of weather.

Each field passed by the window like a painting, in yellow, gold, brown, then green.

Green thickened into mounds that rolled along a gravel road. From the peak of a knoll, I could see the lane winding ahead. It sauntered over and around hills, curving to greet each quiet house. This place smelled like peat moss and Wriggley’s gum. Combined with the scent of new car, it makes me nauseous even now. But the dank air eventually gave way to rain, and I rolled up my window. Droplets clung to the glass, tumbling down towards the corner. As they picked up speed, they’d collide and merge into slower beads. They’d roll until they reached the edge and were swallowed by the frame. I could watch this slow race for hours, set against an emerald backdrop. This place was quaint.

Where lush green was torn open, there were sheets of solid limestone. Our van zipped across an abandoned seabed, void of plant life, and worn smooth from wind and rain. The rock was cracked in coral-like patterns, and the rain streamed through its crevasses. The plain reached out and sheared the coast, where it disappeared into a crash of waves. We turned up the music, and pressed on in the rain.

As the air turned cold, the raindrops turned to sleet, then snow. We were high above sea level. Some prehistoric force had sliced the rock, and heaved it up into the clouds. Then someone else had carved a road, so that we might dapple in sublimity, from the safety of our SUV. The road clung tight to shear faces, and our truck unwillingly followed. We were top heavy with gear, leaning on every bend. Even the dog sat still, for fear of throwing us off balance.

Out the right window, the cliff pressed its jagged face against the glass. A net hung between us, catching falling rock. To the left, the plateau dropped into a frozen stream. The ice was whittled by the same wind that cut the valley. It was splintered over uneven rock, and the shards were blanketed in snow.

The snow falls heavier in the prairies. It swirls around the car and cloaks our view. Dad is steering toward the shoulder, and we follow the rumble strip through whiteness. Mom is gripping the dashboard, and my Brother has tucked his cell phone into his pocket. The dog is sleeping in the middle seat. She shows no interest in the snow, or the sound of the pavement. Her eyes are droopy. Her hair is grey.