The topic for Scribbit’s Monthly Write-Away contest is Vacation. As usual, it is any take on the subject matter. I considered a number of different ways to address this topic—upcoming vacation plans (lots of out of town weddings coming up), embarrassing moments while on vacation (tucking my skirt into my panties in the restroom of a Paris cafe, only to discover the feat after the waiters did), dream vacations (scotch tasting with Duncan MacLeod in Scotland), or send-ups of vacation resorts (although Alpha Dogma already covered the swim up bar). Such a dilemma…
I thought of this Louis L’Amour quote, courtesy of my A Word A Day emails: “Too often I would hear men boast of the miles covered that day, rarely of what they had seen.”
When I think of the most memorable things I have seen on a vacation, I’ve noticed a theme. Extremities. Extreme grandeur, extreme poverty, extreme color, extreme cityscape…
This moment falls into the category of extremely brief (and fortunately, I’m not talking about sex)–
In October 2005, I went on a ten day trip riding/camping trip in the Canyon de Chelly in New Mexico. I went on the trip by myself. Long story of what led up to it, but let’s leave it at Husband supported me in my need for a break. He stayed at home with the kids (score!) and I went on this random rugged camping trip with no cell service, no restrooms, and no bath facilities. Oh yeah, after ten days, I looked hot (score!).
On one particular night, I walked out of the campsite with my fellow camper, Karen, and one of the Navajo guides, Justin (you’re not allowed anywhere in the canyon without a Navajo guide).
We lay down in the sand to stargaze. As it was October, the winds of winter rustled the drying, dying leaves of the cottonwoods and nonnative Russian olive trees to remind us that in another month, we would be freezing and wet, as we were on the brink of the rainy season. The sand we lay down on felt similar to the beach–rough, like it contained traces of pulverized shell, cold like the Pacific ocean embedded itself in it. There was no roar of ocean, though, nor was there an endless starry night with the glitter of moonlight on a thousand ripples of water. Instead, I lay on the floor of a canyon, staring up at monolithic walls, that towered at a height I could barely comprehend. In the daytime, these walls boasted more shades of brown and red than even Crayola could name, but in the middle of the night, they were huge and black, but not in the 2001: A Space Odyssey sort of way, seeing as I did not start jumping around and shrieking (also, I’m not an ape). Though these walls seemed to be the kind of thing nothing could pass through, the wind whistled right on through, forcing me to zip of my sweater and pull my hands inside my shirt so I could rub my knuckles together.
Justin pointed out satellites and constellations I could not see, and in the midst of one of those “It’s right there! Can’t you see it?” claims, it happened.
A falling star. A circle of white light that gleamed and died away almost instantaneously.
Simple, I know. And therein lay its beauty.
I found myself enthralled by its appearance, awed by its ferocity, and accepting of its departure. A vacation in three seconds. A lifetime in three seconds.
It’s amazing what can happen in three seconds.
