#West Fork Trail

[kaelula-sungwis]

Push forward by Brian Evans Via Flickr: Sedona, AZ

[jwong2000]

Ride Report - Cogswell Dam Ride

55 miles, 4:15 moving time, 3,241 ft ascent Lynda, Trevor, John, Paul G, Paul M, Ahmed, Mike W, Gregg D., Marisa, Joe Perfect Fall Day in SoCal. Sunny cool morning, deep blue skies. Mile 0: Start from Sierra Madre Starbucks. Mile 8: Pick up at Encanto Park Duarte Mile 10: San Gabriel River Trail North. End. Keep on Hwy 39, Azusa Canyon. Light head winds. Sun was a bit lower in the…

[mentagenesis]

Energizing Excursion.

by Daniel Wolfert. Earlier this week while I was working outside on my never-ending construction projects here on my retirement property, it occurred to me that the weather was perfect for a hike I’ve been wanting to do for some time. By choice, I live in an area with prime hiking trails and magnificent natural beauty. The problem is I get so wrapped up in working on my property improvement…

[catboybiologist]

The Sierras Nevada mountains bear ancient scars.

(Pic: the valley that forms the path of the Middle fork of the Kaweah River, going westward from the Kaweah gap. Sequoia NP.)

These relatively young mountains started as a plateau in Western North America (or rather, Laurasia) during the Cretaceous and early Paleogene. But soon afterwards, rivers carved a rugged landscape. As glaciation periods began ~30-40 mya, the advancing and retreating of rivers of ice from the mountaintops scoured this further into deep, granite canyons. Their scouring revealed buried pockets of magma, solidified into domes, spires, and monoliths, many of which are named and iconic.

(Pic: half dome viewed from El Capitan. Yosemite NP.)

Now, with humans, the fate of these canyons has been varied.

The Yosemite Valley is by far the most well known and recognizable of these canyons. While it is protected as a national park, it is one of the most famous and highly visited parks in the entire US, and a world famous recreation destination. Because of this, it's well preserved, but fairly built up. The Yosemite village has full time habitation from park workers, car traffic, two hotels, restaurants, shops, and more. A natural wonder and recreation destination to be sure, and the neighboring high country is extremely wild, but certainly notably built up.

(Pic: East Yosemite valley from the Yosemite falls trail. The Ahwanee hotel is visible on the left.)

Within the boundaries of the same national park is a sadder story: Hetch Hetchy. Hetch Hetchy valley, just North of the Yosemite valley, boasts similar granite features to Yosemite itself- but some are submerged forever. In the early 20th century, the valley was dammed and flooded to supply water to the booming city of San Francisco. It still does. Some proposals have been made to drain it, but some believe that the damage is already done.

(Pic: Hetch Hetchy reservoir. Only pic in this post not by me, taken from NPS website.)

Kings Canyon represents a middle ground. In 1940, General Grant national Park was expanded to include the canyon, and subsequently renamed Kings Canyon National Park, now jointly managed with Sequoia NP. Car access is possible, and there are visitor services at the bottom, but nothing in the scale of Yosemite. A more typical national park experience, it feels a lot more rugged and wild, while boasting many similar granite features.

(Pic: looking down the paradise valley as it connects to Kings Canyon.)

And then.... There's the Kern valley.

Tucked discreetly in the Southeast of the Sierras, relatively little people know of its existence, despite being as deep and grand as the others.

The reason for this is it's level of protection. The Kern Valley is a wilderness area of Sequoia NP- the highest level of protection for conservation in the United States. In wilderness zones, no permanent structures or roads are permitted- only hiking trails and primitive campsites.

Some parts of the lower Kern fall outside of this boundary, but the upper Kern is only accessible by multiple days on foot. Numerous hiking trails cross cross the area, including the High Sierra Trail, which I completed a week ago.

It's gorgeous, and even though it's used by hikers, it feels untouched by human hands.

But.

We can show it something else.

Some kind of .... Body part. That has a day of the week based following in this website.

That's right, you fools.

THIS IS ANOTHER TGIRL TUMMY TUESDAY POST!

On August 24th, I descended into the Kern from the West via the HST, and decided to show it what I know best- some good fucking tgirl tummy.

Happy Tuesday to the freaks, the degens, and the losers, and the business they get up to, to make their lives more interesting, whatever if may be.

Tags under the cut!

@lilithtransrights @xenasaur

@whalesharkcat @godless-of-the-hunt

@anarqueeen @shakukon-to @eruditegeek

@puzzlecatt @sagasolejma

@havingsecondthots @quinns-sinns

[flippantsmeagol]

Morning walk along the West Fork trail. Sedona, Az.

[come-on-darling-honey]

The Beaten Path, [Paul Lahote x reader.]

Walking through the woods to meet your ex-best friend Paul should've been an easy task but a red eyed creature changed that. Then a silver wolf changed it even further.

word count- 6k [my longest fic ever !!! [fem! reader, no biological factors mentioned] [reader is Quills cousin but no race is mentioned, in order to be accessible to all readers!]

warnings- mentions of ed!bles, nothing explicit.

I couldn’t see three feet ahead of me. The usual light touches of the leaves grazed and screamed at my skin, my face, my legs, my arms. I couldn’t stop, just keep climbing, keep going. The trees were thick and steady, the rough bark under my feet felt as if I could never fall. My fingertips gripped onto the rough bark; a blistering pain followed every movement up. I ran until I couldn’t breathe anymore, seeking solace in the high ground of the tree as a vantage point upon the misery I’d ran from. Climbing into the vivid greenery I couldn’t breathe, my lungs felt strained as each breath left rapidly. My feet and hands moved quicker than I could think, the only thought in my mind was run. Run from the creature that grabbed me. The foreign beast that didn’t belong on the hiking trails I grew up on. Even climbing now, I could see it. The creature’s skin was uncomfortably pale and freezing cold, like rocks. Empty red eyes, that were dull flames staring at me.

That creature belonged in the urban walls. Among the garbage of modernity. Not the beaten path. Locals referred to it as ‘the bush’, warning tourists visiting First beach to ‘stay away from the Bush, there’s creatures in there that would make a beast cry.’ The creature was of no doubt agile but held no comfort in the ground, its feet kept slipping as they never mastered the placement on the dry dirt floor. They tried grabbing onto a branch, snapping it by accident. Its red eyes screamed their discomfort. But most locals in Forks and La Push learnt how to walk the path. The dirt path and how to climb along the rough trees. Even on this unusually hot day where the dirt hardened, it was home.

I’d reached the west clearing when the creature found me. It was fast. Too fast. But it was frozen. For two seconds. Two glorious seconds where I managed to run to the treeline, skidding down the paths I’ve known since childhood. Climbing the tallest tree to see where it was. Turning around I wish I never had, the creature and its pale body had been ripped apart by a beast. Snarls and a viscous thrill filled the air, the swell of the trees forgotten now. The beast was a large… silver wolf. A glorious wolf. I’d seen wolves in the bush before but none that big. It was unnaturally big. Bears couldn’t even compare to its size; the sleek silver coat was so thick I expected it to sling it off to reveal a beast of a man. Two other wolves appeared helping the silver wolf, a black one and a brown one. My hiking boots felt too heavy on my feet, suddenly I felt this inhuman urge to pray. But I couldn’t move, think or pray. My movements were singular. Every slight change in my body a fault of my rushing mind. It was odd, I felt no fear as I watched the strange wolves tear the creature apart. Was it because I knew they wouldn’t be able to reach me this far up the trees or the deluded voice whispering in the back of my head that they saved me. That the creature that looked so human, it was inhuman was the desired target and they had let me run away. I wanted to give the wolves my onliness so they would protect me, love the dirt before me. But I don’t know why, and I could never explain it, but I felt as if they knew. They saw and bled with me. Or they were too busy tearing apart the creature. The guttural snarls sounded suffocated with marble or rock, every bite I could hear sounded more like a crack than a tear. It was haunting. The wildflowers of the clearing swayed in the wind, getting crushed by the fight.

There was a thick gust of wind swirling around me, my body felt as if the wind flew straight through. I could smell the sweet fragrance of the leaves that surrounded my body, shielding me. I emersed myself within the evergreen. Rough bark grazed my fingertips as I gripped onto the tree as a lifeline, my fingers still sore from my frantic climbing. My feet were warm and steady, the hiking boots, while too heavy and confining also helped me. I was alert. The trees whispered, well the barks, growls and screams were louder, but I couldn’t focus on them. The air was wet. It’d rained in the night, but the hot summer sun had dried most of the dampness, yet it lingered. It was weird that I couldn’t hear anymore, only a constant ringing pouncing through my ears. There was a lump in my pocket, remembering the edible stashed in there I was glad I decided to take it after I met up with Paul, glad my drug induced self wasn’t wandering the bush about to run into the creature. My reasoning being I’d need the small edible after to deal with whatever he was going to say and to manage the emptiness I’d been feeling since I had last seen him.

It had been hours since the attack. The wolves had left, burying the creature’s body in the dirt. But I couldn’t leave, I could barely move or think. What if there were others? Of course, my family would start to worry, so would Paul. I’d promised to meet Paul on the north clearing, not west but I’d been side-tracked, so he’d no doubt start to look for me. He’d always look for me. Even though I was angry at him, he’d find me and help me get rid of this dull pain in my head. I was no longer perched in the tree rather sitting on the thickest, highest branch. The sun had started to set when I felt myself drifting asleep, thankful that I’d been able to rest on the branch without threat of falling.

I felt a burning in my throat before I felt the cold. Wearing short cargo shorts and a thin t-shirt was a smart idea through the burning sun of the daytime as I hiked but it was now the biggest mistake I could’ve made. Carefully finding my footing, I climbed down the tree. Shivering, I wanted to vomit. Fear kept itself harboured in my throat. As I reached the ground my head spun, looking for red eyed creatures. Was it even real? Had I fallen and gotten the concussion instead of being thrown? But then how, in my concussed state, did I manage to climb the largest tree if it wasn’t for adrenaline? What I found was safer yet in my moment of haze from lack of adrenaline and possible concussion I was terrified. That silver wolf was there, at the bottom of the tree. How hadn’t I seen it? It was so large I must’ve been blind. But even if this wolf saved me, I was too close to it. Unforgivably close to an animal that could rip me in half with one movement. The ringing had subsided, I could barely hear the deep breaths as the wolf slept. Its paws spread to the empty sky, waiting for a sun kiss.

Moving as slow and steady as I could, the wolf awoke. Watching me with a soft kindness I’d never seen before. No one could ever explain to me why the hell I felt like I’d seen those eyes a hundred times before. Why I felt safe. I had begun to place some distance between us as I reached the end of the clearing, up north, Would I even be able to see the path? I stepped onto three stones, following the path over the deep lake, my head swirling and my eyes gathered a black haze. I couldn’t see. Even in the moonlit darkness, I couldn’t see anything.

I heard my name being shouted.

I kept walking.

After the fourth yell I realised who it was, Paul. His voice was dry and scratchy, but it was him, there was no one else it could be.

I turned quicker than I had moved in hours. Paul stood there wearing… almost nothing? He’d yelled my name again but my head was spinning. I needed to yell to him to be fucking quiet. That there is a massive wolf behind him and he could get killed if he didn’t shut up. But I couldn’t. Something wet hit my knees, I’d fallen into the edge of the lake. Blood flew from my knees onto the bedrock. My hands in the water up to my mid-arm. Everything was so blurry. All I could see was a shimmer from the moon onto the water. Then I felt him, hands coming onto my waist, pulling me up. I couldn’t speak. I just wanted sleep. Something to give me energy again.

I don’t know how I got here. In a large warm bed. Warm orange blankets encased my body, wooden walls holding me with a soft fondness. I could hear shushed talking now. I was at Emily’s. Her cabin was so warm. Looking down I could see my hiking boots strewn across the wooden floor, my shorts and shirt on a pile on top of the old red rug. Immediately I looked down to see old pyjamas I’d left here on my body, praying it was Emily who’d changed me. Coffee danced through the air; I couldn’t help but picture the familiar kitchen. Wooden furniture that had be loved and worn by the people I held dearest, the yellow and orange rug that Emily had made with her aunt, and Paul sitting at the table. His long hair framing his beautiful tan face. The dim, homely lighting of the kitchen would encase him, and he’d seem alive.

This was the first time in weeks I was going to see him, well technically the second time in weeks. I’d bumped into him as I was leaving Emily’s, he’d stared at me in shock. I was angry but I held no grudge. I held a grudge for weeks; bile rose in my throat when I thought of him. When our friends angrily spat his name. We’d be in school and see him, angry rants and swears flooded the air at his lack of loyalty and cruelness.  I couldn’t stop thinking about him though, Emily had told me I should just give in and see him. She’d been very persistent. Despite always helping me leave before Paul would arrive with Jared and Sam. I owed her, I guess.

“You’re awake!” A sweet voice said as the door opened, pulling me out of my wandering thoughts. Two long dark braids framed her beautiful face. She wore a green t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, holding a glass of water. Emily came over to me and started fussing over my head and that I should slowly drink some water, but also lay back and not push my body too far.

“how’d I get here?” I pushed out of my throat, it felt grainy, like someone had put a filter into my throat.

“Paul found you, sweetie.” She said, redoing the braid down my back. Her thin fingers moving to my shoulders lightly massaging them.

“You’re knees and hands are kinda cut up” a familiar voice said from the doorway, I hadn’t seen Paul and Sam standing there. They must’ve been there the whole time. He was worn down, under eye bags dark and large. I’d only met Sam a handful of times; he’d looked at me in such an odd way. Waiting for something, but now he looked oddly satisfied. I never thought I’d be wishing for the odd discomfort again. Sam was larger than Paul, but Paul normally at least, was quicker. He’d slide in before anyone else, in school, in gym and when we played as kids. Even on hikes he’d always reach the goal first.

Sam called my name, pulling my attention away from Paul, who looked incredibly dishevelled and stressed.

“When you’re fully rested, we have something to tell you but for now you need to eat and rest.” As if Sam rung a bell in Emily’s head, she got up swiftly and went pass the two men, probably to the kitchen. Sam followed her, laughing lightly at her.

Still standing in the doorway, Paul stared at the floor. He looked so tired, I signalled for his attention then to the bed beside me. He didn’t lay next to me like he normally did rather he sat on the edge. Somehow that hurt more than anything else. He tucked some fly aways form my braid behind my ear smiling weakly. Then pulled his hands into his lap.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, looking down. Tears filled his eyes. I realised now he was wearing a t-shirt; one I’d bought him. I’d wanted to buy him hiking boots, so he’d stop wearing that grim pair of vans he’d gotten when we were fifteen, but his feet kept growing and I only saw the point in buying him a stretchy shirt, three sizes too big. It was snug on him now, but it didn’t look like he could physically grow anymore.

“I don’t understand” before he could answer I continued, “why are you sorry?” the tears fell, I grabbed his hand pushing every muscle in my body to move closer to him.

“I should’ve helped you.”

What was he saying? He had nothing to do with the creature. It felt like my legs and arms burned as I remembered the creature being torn limb by limb. The great silver wolf that fell asleep at the foot of my tree, keeping me safe. How I didn’t run, maybe it was the concussion making me delirious or it was intuition.

“The wolf didn’t hurt me!” I almost shouted, getting defensive over it. There’s no way he could’ve thought that is what hurt me. He looked shocked. His mouth hung open softly, shock clearly sitting in his eyes. “There was this-” How on earth could explain this without sounding insane “this creature and it threw me…” trailing off I realised how mad I must sound but something in his expression made me carry on “… and the wolf, the silver one, saved me. I climbed up a tree and the wolf stayed there! Like- like it was guarding me” I was desperate at this point, begging that he’d understand. Or at least he’d think I’d hit my head harder than Emily originally thought. My throat scratched; I shouldn’t have yelled.

But he laughed. Grabbed me into a bear hug and laughed. He was still crying; he was crying harder than before. But he laughed.

“Did the wolf seem… familiar?” He asked, I would’ve taken this as a joke, but he was watching me with a constant sincerity, almost begging me for the truth. “Because it was and I know this is insane but you have to believe me.” He added, desperate.

“I believe you.” God, I wished I didn’t because I also wasn’t completely following what he was saying but I’d believe him.

The next twenty minutes were a haze of confusion, disbelief and hunger.

I knew the tribal history; my grandparents told me and my cousin Quill all of them. Quill’s tall friend, who I couldn’t remember the name of, had been calling Paul and his friends the hall monitors on steroids, I’d laughed at the time when Quill told me. Mostly because Quill kept quizzing me on Paul and if I knew anything, he looked like an angry squirrel being swallowed by his grey sweatshirt. I knew about certain men of the tribe who were in the three bloodlines and that they would protect us. As wolves, since that was their soul, but they were stories. Stories made by the Elders or even the elders, elders to keep the tribe’s history alive and interesting… and Paul was telling me it was all true.

That the reason he’d left my garden almost shaking in anger was because his body was throwing him into his first phase. That he’d been in incomparable pain. That I’d hated him and cursed him for weeks for leaving me, that he didn’t want to. Sam had given him an order and he’d no choice but to submit. I couldn’t be angry at Sam, no, it was for the safety of the community, for my safety and my cousins.

His hand traced down my back, beside my braid. It was a perfect sensation. A hundred tiny graces upon me. It hadn’t felt like this before when he touched me. It was as exciting and as explosive before. Now it was as if his hand had always been there.

“What are you thinking?” his voice was low, sweet and fanned by his breath next to my ear. We were so close. He’d moved closer to me after he’d explained the big thing. I thought him turning into a wolf would be the biggest news but then he told me about… imprinting. That he’d imprinted on me. That he couldn’t stop thinking about me, since we were kids. That all the imprint bond had done is prove his feelings.

“I’m not too sure.” Before he moved his hand away, I grabbed it, “I’ve always liked you, but I don’t know, you turn into a wolf, Paul. A wolf, it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“I understand.”

“But I do like you,” I noticed a small bird sitting in the tree outside the window. A black-capped chickadee, small and fragile but with an attitude larger than the moon, they’d always commute to the bird feeder in my grandma’s lush garden. ‘they’re a sign of content, dear’ I remember my grandmother telling me as I grew. I have contentment with Paul, he is adventure and roughness yet a peaceful whirl of wind. The hot sun on my back and the smiling grace of a clumsy fawn in spring. Sometimes my grandma would say that they can see the future, when I was a kid, the concept enamoured me. I’d practically ran to school the next day, sitting down in English class I turned around to face Paul and told him that those tiny, sweet birds can see the future.  He’d laughed and told me they couldn’t but we both spoke about it for hours after school. 

I heard his laugh and could already see his smile.

“Do you remember when we were kids, old Billy Black told us about the ancestors for the first time and we ran off to play in the ocean.” He moved closer to me, thighs touching.

“I remember my Nana and your grandfather laughing at us when a wave knocked us to shore.” I laughed with him, the pain from before now a dull ache. “And quill chasing us back into the sea.”

Quill. Does he know? It could happen to him. Has it already happened to him? He’s of the three bloodlines, we’re of the Ateara bloodline, it could happen. My tiny baby cousin could be subjected to revolting pain and his body reshaping, throwing him violently into this world. If it was anything like Paul had described, it to be he was about to be in an indescribable amount of pain.

“Will it happen to Quill?” I stopped laughing. All happiness had been scraped out of me. Barren would be the word to describe it.

“Sam thinks so, so does your grandfather,” my head pounded. My body shifted before my mind could. Of course, he knew but why would he know? How could my own granddad not tell me. Not let Quill and I into the world we both might’ve been subjected towards. “Your grandparents wanted to tell you both everything but they… feared it would trigger Quill to phase.” He added on, his hand reaching mine. It’s like he wasn’t even aware that he was doing it, like it was as simple and as common as breathing. When his hand gripped mine, I knew he was right, that it was all real.

“Do they know about the imprint?” I asked, he looked away from me.

“Yes, I wanted to tell you first, but you wouldn’t see me, and I couldn’t keep going.” He stopped, breathing heavily “Sam told them, they were worried about you and the impact the bond was having.”

“What do you mean?” Was this the cause of my headaches and insomnia? I’d been using some medication to sleep and it just led to some intensely horrific nightmares. Had Paul felt this? Had he felt worse? He certainly looked worse. Paul affirmed my thoughts, but it seemed he got the worst of it. He was in physical and mental pain at the thought of me hating him. His right hand lightly traced circles on my thighs. We spoke for hours till Emily came in and called us for food. I adjusted to being with Paul again quicker than breathing. He was glued to me. His warm body centred me, we laughed and joked with Emily, Sam and Jared. They spoke about Embry Call, one of Quills friends, how he was showing signs of changing. He was the tall friend I remembered, he was so sweet and shy. I couldn’t stomach the idea of that boy going through the pain the men around the dinner table went through. But he wouldn’t be alone. I guess that was something. God Quill was going to kill me if he finds out I know. At least I can call my grandma and talk to her about it.

“Oh um, I think I should get going,” I said standing up. I’d just noticed how dark it was outside it couldn’t be earlier than 1am, and as someone who lived with her Grandparents, 1am was not an ideal time to get home.

“I’ll drive you.” Paul said, his voice whirled around me, encapsulating me and holding me. The air was freezing as it hit our faces, walking to Pauls truck I laughed when he ran ahead of me to open my door. Everything felt so easy again. Paul lived five minutes away from me, we used to carpool to school every day. Stopping at the Sonic to get coffee and food. Singing off-key to whatever cassette we could find. We’d go and hike in the Olympic national park on the weekends, spend the whole day together and then the whole night. It didn’t feel like we’d spent an hour apart, let alone weeks. The ride was short and clam, the streetlights illuminated the road pathed by trees. There was an almost hidden path that was a sharp left to get to my house.

“I know it’s late….” I trailed off as we arrived at the front of the big house. “But is there any chance you could stay the night?” as we got out I noticed not only the porch light was on but so was the light to the kitchen. Someone was awake, and it wasn’t my grandparents who go to sleep at 10pm every night. “Who is that?” I asked, drawing Paul’s attention away from my face, how long had he been looking at my face? My knees ached, a throbbing pain from where I fell over in the bush. Paul walked towards the front door, opening it quietly. His shoulders were tense and I couldn’t see his face but I doubted it’d be very friendly to any intruders. The door creaked open, I closed it behind me. We took our shoes off, socked feet hitting the wooden floor. My home always smelt like incense, my grandma burned it everyday before she went to sleep, a habit I’d picked up from her.

“Quill! What the fuck!” I whisper shouted seeing Quill’s stocky figure eating cereal. He looked at Paul with a shit-eating smile on his face. “It’s 1am what are you doing here?”

“Gran called me cause you” he emphasised, pointing at me, “Didn’t come home!”

“Well, I’m home so thanks but go sleep in the guest room.” I tried to push him away, but he stayed put, staring at Paul. I knew the two almost got into a fight the other day if Sam hadn’t stepped in so my hope for a sweet loving interaction was so far away it was learning to read a map to go further away from the two men in my kitchen. “Please don’t you two.” I sighed, grabbing bread and butter.

“Why is he here?” Quill asked, cereal in his mouth and eyes piercing at Paul.

“Your cousin, who lives here, invited me in.” Paul’s voice was solid, but his tightened jaw showed how thin his patience was.

“You shouldn’t take in strays, especially ones who leave you alone for weeks.” Quill said practically spitting at Paul.

“You know nothing about this.” Paul shoved his finger into Quills chest. Of course, Quill knew exactly what button to push. I sat down on the counter, eating toast and pushing my socked foot between the pair to keep them apart.

“Guys, 1am, people are sleeping. Don’t.” my voice was cool; I knew neither of them would do anything but my head still hurt so I didn’t want to entertain them. Then I felt a cool hand grab my leg.

“What the fuck did he do to you.” Quill seethed. Staring at the dried blood on my legs.

“I fell Quill, stop being protective. I’m an adult, I can handle myself.” He didn’t look like he was going to take this well, always keen to having an overdramatic imagination. His grip tightened on my leg. “Seriously Quill, drop it.” My voice was deeper now. I didn’t want this to be a spectacle. Paul was staring at him, almost daring him to say what he was thinking. To give him a reason.

“He wouldn’t hurt her, darling. Let go of her leg.” We all turned to see my grandma in the doorway, her hair out of its usual braid, cascading to her hips. She knew about Paul, about the imprint bond. Of course, she knew but this wasn’t going to make it easier to explain to Quill.

“You woke up Gran well done idiot.” I whispered kicking Quill lightly. She made her way over to us, checking over the scrapes on me. She scolded us for being loud and then Paul and I for staying out so late. That despite us being adults I live her roof and should always listen to her. which i knew of course.

“You should’ve called little bird,” she muttered putting her hand to my cheek, she was cold compared to Paul who had grabbed my hand at some point. “Quill go to bed sweetheart.” Quill was about to protest but the glare he was given shut him up and he sulked off to the guest room down the hall but not before looking at me. I felt a swell of guilt raise within me. He looked so hurt. Liked I’d listened to the pain the sound of drums caused him and then proceeded to dance to the thumping beat. My hand tightened around Pauls. I looked down, my cheeks were hot in shame.

“He’ll understand one day.” Gran said, cleaning the scrapes, I felt a sting as the alcohol wipe hit my skin.

“I don’t want him to, he’s only 16 Gran. At least Paul had graduated high school when it happened to him.” I said my eyes following her actions as she teetered around the kitchen.

She and Paul soothed me, it got to the point where it sounded as if they were soothing themselves. Knowing one day Quill would understand if the Cullen’s didn’t leave soon.

Paul slept in my room that night and for every following night for the next two months until one night we made the decision to sleep at Pauls house. We weren’t expecting his dad to rush in at 3am, however.

He called our names. “It’s Quill.” He was holding the phone, pulling it from the kitchen through the one-story house. Despite being dreary and sleepy Paul and I immediately pulled ourselves apart grabbing clothes and shoes as quick as we could. Quill had a fever all week, he was sweaty and vomiting alot. I had wished it was just a sickness that he'd gotten from a friend, but I should've known better.

“Where is he?” I asked as Paul jogged to his truck, turning on the ignition.

“He was at your grandmas but he ran into the woods.” He said, leaving the house with us “Paul you should go find him, I’ll drive.”

“I think I’d be the last person he’d wanna see.” Paul said getting into the truck. I got in too, Pauls dad asked one more time if his son was sure, “I am dad, go back inside before the boys wake up.” His brothers were young and had school in the morning. I’m sure even though they have no idea what is happening they’d love to use it as an excuse to bunk school. The drive was quick and a complete blur.

Arriving at my house I saw my grandmother crying into my grandfathers’ arms. Her long hair melted into his, they fell into this whirl of grief together. There was something oddly haunting about that and yet beautiful. I’d found out recently it was my grandmother’s father who had been a shifter like Billy Blacks Grandfather. The pain was recognised by her, she knew it. She’d breathed it, I wonder if she ever could’ve imagined this would’ve all happened again. All this pain and anger. The lights in the house were all on, it was freezing, the wind was sharp.

“He screamed when he shifted.” A slight voice said interrupting my thoughts as Paul and I got out of his truck, his arms weaving around me. It was Emily, she wore her soft pink pyjamas and Sam’s denim jacket drowned her frame.  She looked just as tired as I felt.

“Where’s Sam?” Paul asked, it sounded broken, like there was bile raising in his throat. I knew he didn’t really want to see Sam, to be told to do something he deeply doesn’t want to do. But he respected Sam, loved him like a brother. He’d kill for him like a brother. He told me one night in hushed voices as our limbs entangled how he wished he’d known Sam and Jared before all of this, how it felt like he had been known by them so well he had finally felt seen.

“He’s looking for Quill, he said to tell you to stay with the family.” His chest exhaled heavily. His arm tightening around me. When I looked up at him I hadn’t even noticed the fear in his eyes till Emily walked away and he looked back at me.

“He’ll be okay. Scared but okay,” He whispered guiding me over to the little cluster of love that had formed for Quill. Everyone was whispering. We couldn’t speak any louder in case he heard us, frightened and confused. One wrong word had every persons throats suspended in the cold air of a Sunday night. Monday morning, I amended as I looked at the old leather watch on Billy Blacks wrist. Before I could think I was pulled into my grandparents. I couldn’t breathe, lungs constricting and thoughts blurring. My tears were hot and choked as I cried onto my grandpa’s shoulder like I was five again. A small child who had fallen from a tree or who just missed her cousin and couldn’t understand why he couldn’t live with us all the time. I just want to know he’s safe. He’ll be safe I know but I don’t know.

I wasn’t sure for how long I stood and cried but I felt a familiar warm hand on my waist pulling me into an even more familiar chest. Paul’s hand stroked my hair as I cried. My head hurt.

“They have him, he’s okay.” He muttered into my hair. I breathed shakily and heavily as my hands slipped to his back, gripping his shirt. I hadn’t known at the time, but Paul had shifted to hear everyone while I was with my grandparents. Embry had found Quill on the Canadian border. He’d gone so far.

After he came back everyone departed with their respective partner. Embry, Quill and Jacob all phased back and cried into each other. Overwhelmed and angry. They cried so hard they couldn’t breathe. Knowing they would be going through this together though, that soothed Quill. He wasn’t alone again. There was no forgiveness in the air as we all knew why they’d been forced into this. Quills mom, my aunty Rita, grabbed him with the most pained hug I’d ever seen. Uncle had walked over to Paul and I, explaining that Quill had shifted in his sleep, he’d had a nightmare.

An orange hair pin caught my attention from the corner of my eye, turning I saw Kim Ironheart, my cousin. She wore an old pair of basketball shorts and an old jersey. I ran over to her. Clutching onto her. Asking above to spare her. She sobbed into me, her breaths as rugged as my own. Sleep still laid in her eyes like the slippers that clung to her feet.

A strong and clear voice called us over, Quill. He stood on his own in the space between us and the rest of those who lingered. I couldn’t make out his expression. I couldn’t bare to look. Kim walked over to him. Saying how he ‘shouldn’t scare us like that, shitass.’ I heard his laugh, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the floor. Would he even forgive me? Understand that if I had told him it could’ve triggered him earlier or that I knew why Embry and Jacob were ignoring him and it wasn’t because he was a bad friend but because he was too good. That I knew the end was near. He called my name again and I looked up. His eyes were creased with a smile and flooding with tears as his hand beckoned me over. I ran. The dirt under my sneakers fleeing beneath me. Colliding roughly with him and Kim. We were as thick as thieves. We stood together throughout so much, when I lost my parents, when Kim lost her closest friend and now when Quill lost a part of himself for others. Our arms weaved around each other like when we were kids begging our family to let us all sleepover. Our cries turned into laughter as we stood, feet planted in dirt.

“I take it the three of you are all sleeping in the living room tonight?” gran laughed, ushering us inside. Emily and Sam lingered, Paul laughed and followed my Grandparents inside with my phone and purse in his hands. As Quill went over to Sam, I tried pulling Kim by the hand, but she was frozen. Transfixed. I followed her gaze to Jared. He was as frozen as she was. Staring at her like they hadn’t known each other since they were three. Oh. I think this is… Not my place. I decided to go and find Paul, I dropped Kim’s hand but not before an extra squeeze to let her know she wasn’t alone. I found Paul on the sofa his smile transferring to mine. His lap was warm as I sat down.

“Did Jared?” I asked, his slight nod was all I needed. He stared at me trying to gauge my reaction. But all I could do was smile more; she’d liked him for such a long time.

“Lets sleep, I’ll knock Jared’s teeth out in the morning.” He joked pulling me down into him.

I couldn't sleep, not until Quill and Kim came in. We spoke for hours. Quill still wasn't Pauls biggest fan but he understood. They tore me a new one for how i found out about Paul and the rest of the legends. We didn't speak to Kim about Jared, they will take their time. For now it would just us basking in the sweet moments of the end. We'd take a hike together through the bush the next morning, finding our place once more on the beaten path.

pauls pinterest board

authors note: just handed in two essays back to back so please accept this as a gift for being away for longer than I expected! I took so much love and care writing this I hope it makes at least one persons day! Next up is Paul Lahote colour blind ! I love you all ! I'm going to promise right now that you will get another post on the 13th of March which is my birthday !! Take care- em x

[3rdeyeblaque]

On Dec 10th, we venerate Elevated Ancestor & Saint Maȟpíya Lúta aka Chief Red Cloud on the 113th anniversary of his passing 🕊 [for our Hoodoos of First Nations descent]

Red Cloud, Chief of the Oglala Sioux, was a political leader, a negotiator of peace, & fierce warrior who fought tirelessly to save his people from colonizer expansion into the midwest.

Maȟpíya Lúta was born near the forks of the Platte River, in what was at the time known as the Nebraska Territory; to his Ogala Lakota mother & Brulé Lakota leader father.

He showed great courage, strength, & leadership in battles against the Oglala's traditional competitors once he came of age; the Pawnees, Crows, Shoshones, & Utes. This ultimately earned him Chiefdom. He also successfully killed the usurper rival to his uncle's political leadership. This divided the Oglala for years to come.

Once European invaders discovered gold in Montana in the 1860s, they began dessimating habitats, sacred lands, & territories to build a road from Fort Laramie in present-day Wyoming to the gold fields. They constructed a series of forts to protect the road from interference, which became known as the Bozeman Trail. In 1865, Chief Red Cloud led the Ogala & their Cheyenne allies into a 2-year war against the colonizers along the Bozeman Trail. They were successful. The soldiers, miners, & others were forced to abandon their operation.

Being the peaceful negotiator that he was, at the end of the war, Chief Red Cloud signed the Second Treaty of Fort Laramie, which bound the U.S. to the promise that it would abandon the Bozeman Trail & return - what is now the western half of South Dakota, along with large parts of Wyoming, & Montana - to Lakota Sioux possession. In return, Red Cloud agreed to end his assault & relocate to a reservation in Nebraska known as the Red Cloud Agency.

In his older age, the great warrior became a diplomat of peace. In 1870s, Chief Red Cloud, along with several other First Nations leaders, traveled to D.C. to meet with U.S. President Grant. He later met with Grant again in 1875, when Grant has the caucasity to offer $25K to the Lakota if they would give up their rights to hunt along the Platte River in the Dakota Territory. Red Cloud, and other leaders, vehemently refused.

While Red Cloud pursued the path of peaceful negotiation & passive tactics, many other Indian leaders (including his own son) wanted to fight for their territory & ways of life. Red Cloud & President Grant sought to avoid war, but it was inevitable. After Sitting Bull's crushing defeat of a U.S. 7th Calvary in June of 1876, Whites began perpetuating aggressively negative campaigns & propaganda against First Nations in the West. Even still, Red Cloud resisted the call to war. He pursued diplomacy. In 1878, he successfully lobbied for the removal of the Indian agent at Pine Ridge Agency due to poor treatment. He returned to D.C. several more times to lobby for his people & defend the rights of all First Nations. This led him to become the most photographed Native of the 19th Century.

Red Cloud continued his work to preserve native lands & to maintain the authority of traditional First Nations leader until he was removed from political power; this may have been influenced by his shifting views in favor colonialism via Christianity & adopted the first name, "John". He later died on the Pine Ridge Agency with his wife; blind & ailing. There he rests in the cemetery so named after him.

"The Whites are the same everywhere. I see them every day. They made us many promises, more than I can remember, but they never kept but one; they promised to take our land, and they took it. " - Chief Red Cloud.

We pour libations & give him💐 today as we celebrate him for his spirit of resistance & immense peace. May we look to him for wise counsel, peaceful resolutions, & as a lesson in the influential power of colonialism.

Offering suggestions: River water, peace pipe, Lakota music, bison meat served with wild potatoes & prairie turnips

‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️

[notyouraryang0dd3ss]

"These aren't bad lyrics you just took them out of context 😭😭😭😭" and then the context just makes it worse. I can't handle it. The line could be "the sky is blue" and the full context is "I looked at the sky/ the sky is blue/I saw the sky/ it was a color/ bl-UUUE" like it's still trash. Now it's long winded trash. There is no difference in the 2 messages there's nothing to clarify. Like, I hated English but I did well and her lyrics are so generic. They sound like she got a 9th grade assignment prompt. "Write a short story containing a keychain, a car, and a fork" "write a rhyming poem about your summer" it's all so juvenile. Anybody can put a few deepish lines in their essays every once in a while. It'll still be a c+ essay if you're talking in circles until you hit the word count. She's a C student who doesn't take the notes then complains that the teacher is out to get her.

That’s the word! The lyric is juvenile. Taylor Swift demonstrates she does not understand how racism works not only then but now.

Chattel slavery was an economic system built upon the kidnapping and exploitation of west Africans. Reducing anyone who participated in this economic system (enslaved Africans did not participate, they were exploited and abused) to simply “racist” is an injustice to enslaved Africans. It dismisses the violence slave traders, masters, auctioneers and more committed as a microagression rather than participating in a violent economic system rooted in the dehumanization of Africans.

You cannot remove chattel slavery from the 1830s, like how you cannot remove the Trail of Tears, like how you cannot remove the Gold Rush. These historical processes shaped daily life during this era she’s choosing to romanticize.

So yeah, the lyric was juvenile at best and bait at worst to get people talking about her album. Whether her ignorance in the line is deliberate or not, she relies on bait like this in her music to disguise its her underwhelming and below average songwriting.

[dilf-din]

Hole in my Heart

WC: 1250

Warnings: language, grief, all the sadness

Summary: this takes place between episodes 5 and 6 as they are walking away from Sam and Henry’s dual gravesite.

Shoutout to @fieldsoftulips for putting these thoughts in my mind. This one’s for you babe.

West. Ellie hiked her backpack up on her shoulder and marched in the direction that Joel had pointed. Tears stung her eyes, but she couldn’t let him see her cry again, not so soon. He was worried enough about her, she didn’t need him thinking she was weak. She sniffed loudly and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, peeking over her shoulder to see Joel trailing behind her a few hundred feet. She stopped to wait for him, she’s not an asshole after all. The toe of her shoe dragging lines in the dirt. She found a small anthill and kicked it over, watched as they all poured out in panic to begin rebuilding. They didn’t hesitate to fix what was broken, she decided she wanted to be like the ants, she wasn’t going to wallow. At least, that’s what she wished she could be like. Inside, her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t stop thinking of their faces. Sam and Henry and Tess and fucking Riley. Their blood thick on her hands when she closed her eyes. Ellie wondered how many more names would be added to that list before it was all said and done, names of people she loved and continued to let down. She took a deep breath and kept walking forward once she heard Joel’s steps approaching just a few feet behind her this time.

The afternoon passed in silence from the pair. The occasional bird song or house settling became the soundtrack to their day. They were both too lost in their own thoughts to check in with the other. There was nothing that could be said, truthfully. The events of the last twenty four hours had them feeling completely spent. They stopped a few times to eat some rations out of Ellie’s pack and rest in the shade for a few minutes before silently agreeing to move on.

Once the sun started threatening to disappear, Joel finally broke the silence.

“Best we start looking for somewhere to settle for the night.”

Ellie nodded, meeting his gaze for the first time in hours. Her brown eyes full of pain instead of their usual twinkle. Joel swallowed thickly and headed along the side of the desolate highway they had been using as their guide. The pavement almost white, drained of all color. Deep cracks forming chasms, turning it into a mini mountain range at their feet. They walked on for another half mile or so before Joel veered off into the tree line, Ellie following wordlessly. They headed deeper into the verdant covering, careful to be far enough off the highway that no one would see their fire. The sky fading into a dusky purple as they found some level ground to make camp on.

Ellie busied herself rolling out their sleeping bags while Joel gathered some wood for a fire. They had found some canned goods at a gas station earlier, enough to tide them over for a few days.

“How about peaches and peas?” Ellie asked rummaging through her bag.

“Sounds pretty pleasant,” Joel quipped.

His alliteration brought a small smile to her lips.

“Nice one old man. Hey, are there any forks in there? Mine was in your old bag.”

Joel had truthfully been avoiding looking in the bag at all, afraid of what might lie inside. They had just grabbed it as is when they fled the motel. He pulled it into his lap and opened the two straps to the main compartment. He held his breath as he dipped his hand in, not expecting the first thing he pulled out to be a ziplock bag full of crayons.

Ellie’s heart lunged into her throat, jumping to her feet, she immediately walked to the edge of the clearing. “I can’t fucking do this,” she exhaled under her breath, mostly to herself. She tried with everything in her to fight back the impending tears. Why hadn’t she been able to save him? Why didn’t her blood work? How long would she see his little face when she closed her eyes at night? She let out an enraged growl and slammed her fist into a tree, breaking the skin and bruising her knuckle.

Joel sat frozen, a lump the size of a fist suddenly lodged in his own throat. He stared absently at the bag of crayons, reaching a trembling hand in to pull out a picture. A crudely drawn sketch of Sam and Henry in superhero garb, masks and all. That was what did him in. Suddenly he was back in his own kitchen throwing some spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling water, humming along to an old George Strait song playing on the radio with static crackling through with the bass.

Sarah sat swallowed up in one of their kitchen chairs. She couldn’t have been older than four at the time. Her hair pulled back into two poufs secured with butterfly clips. She was busily coloring away with her own pack of crayons.

“Look, Daddy!” she chirped enthusiastically, calling his attention away from the onion he was dicing. He ran his hands quickly under the sink and dried them crudely on his jeans before going to meet her. He crouched low to be on her level.

“What’d ya draw baby?” he asked, looking intently into her eyes before shifting his gaze to the paper. And there it was, a drawing of him with a big red cape flying through the sky.

“It’s you because you’re my hero!” she squealed pointing out different aspects of her masterpiece.

“It’s beautiful, darlin’,” he said through a haze of tears pressing a long kiss to her temple. “That one’s gotta go on the fridge for Uncle Tommy to see,” he smiled.

She grinned ear to ear, reaching for another piece of paper to spill her love out onto.

Joel scrunched his eyes shut allowing a single tear to stream down his face, no doubt leaving a track through the inevitable covering of dust that always seemed to cling to his skin. He looked down at Sam’s drawing one more time and tucked it back into the bag. It didn’t feel right to just leave it there in the woods. He rummaged around a bit longer until he pulled out two forks and spoons wrapped in a bandana.

Ellie heard the clinking silverware and drew nearer to the fire, sitting across from Joel on her sleeping bag.

“Here,” he said softly, holding out a fork for her to grab. She swapped him for the can of peaches and got started shoveling the peas into her mouth.

They ate in silence again. The fire crackled softly, and the hoot of an owl carried to them on the wind.

When Ellie laid down to try to sleep that night, Joel stayed awake, rifle in hand. He vowed to not let anything happen to her. The space she was beginning to take up in his heart was something he had been totally unprepared for, he wanted to be mad at himself for allowing it to happen. But when he looked at the way her curls fell across her face glowing amber in the firelight, he saw a little girl who needed him, and he’d be damned if he let anything get in his way of bringing her to the end of this journey safely. He drew his eyes from her face to check their perimeter again, gearing up for another long night.

[artemlegere-art]

Fort Laramie

Artist: Alfred Jacob Miller  (American, 1810–1874)]

Date: Between 1858 and 1860

Medium: Watercolor on Paper

Collection: Walters Art Museum

Description

Founded by William Sublette and Robert Campbell, Fort Laramie lay at the crossroads of an old north-south Indian trail and what became known as the Oregon Trail. Called Fort Laramie because of the nearby Laramie Mountains and the Laramie Fork of the North Platte River, the post was approximately 150 feet square, according to Miller, with bastions at the diagonal corners. Miller's paintings are the only known visual records of the fort, because the original fort was torn down in 1840 before any other artist had traveled the Oregon Trail; it was replaced with another structure, located perhaps on the same site in 1841. -Extracted from "The West of Alfred Jacob Miller" (1837).

In July 1858 William T. Walters commissioned 200 watercolors at twelve dollars apiece from Baltimore born artist Alfred Jacob Miller. These paintings were each accompanied by a descriptive text, and were delivered in installments over the next twenty-one months and ultimately were bound in three albums. Transcriptions of field-sketches drawn during the 1837 expedition that Miller had undertaken to the annual fur-traders' rendezvous in the Green River Valley (in what is now western Wyoming), these watercolors are a unique record of the closing years of the western fur trade.

[fishgut]

You approach a fork in the road.

One road heads East towards a steep, snow-topped mountain. The trail appears rocky and dangerous. Another heads North into a dense forest. You can hear the sounds of creatures lurking beyond the treeline. The last heads West into a murky swamp, and you can see where the trail fizzles out into bubbling water. But, of course, there is always the road behind you, which heads back home.

[jwong2000]

Ride Report - Azusa Canyon to 2nd Gate

52.35 miles, 4:20 moving time, 4,226 ft ascent Lynda, Bill, Joe, Gregg M., Gregg D., Steve, John, Julian, Sue, Mike O., Burt, Eric, Gregg S., Paul G. Mile 0: Start at Starbuck in Sierra Madre. Weather was iffy again but ended up a nice day for a ride. Dressing in layers is the key to iffy weather. I wore my new Assos Jersey; merry black friday shopping to me. Arm warmers, knee warmers, wind…

[rabbitcruiser]

Quesnel, BC (No. 3)

Long before the arrival of prospectors during the Cariboo Gold Rush of 1862, the Southern Carrier (Dakelh) people lived off the land around Quesnel, occupying the area from the Bowron Lakes in the east to the upper Blackwater River and Dean River in the west. The Southern Carrier Nation were known among themselves as ‘Uda Ukelh’, meaning ‘people who travel by boat on water early in the morning’. The name "Quesnel" is derived from Jules Maurice Quesnel, who accompanied Simon Fraser on his journey to the Pacific Ocean. Quesnel came to be called 'Quesnelle Mouth' to distinguish it from Quesnel Forks, 97 kilometres (60 mi) up river. In 1870, it had been shortened to Quesnelle and by 1900, it was spelled the way it is now. Quesnel is located along the gold mining trail known as the Cariboo Wagon Road and supplied nearby Barkerville, the commercial centre of the Cariboo Gold Rush. It also marks one end of the Alexander MacKenzie Heritage Trail. Because of its location on the Fraser River, it was also an important landing for sternwheelers from 1862 to 1886 and then, from 1909 until 1921. The last sternwheeler on the upper Fraser was Quesnel's own namesake craft, and home town product, the Quesnel. Quesnel was incorporated in 1928.

Source: Wikipedia

[supersonicart]

Grant Redden's "Trailing Home."

Currently on view at Maxwell Alexander Gallery in Los Angeles, California is artist Grant Redden's solo exhibition, "Trailing Home."

Born and raised in Southwest Wyoming, Redden creates from the same land as his pioneer ancestors and father worked. His mother was born in a log cabin on the Henry’s Fork of the Green river in Wyoming, and his father’s family were some of the first pioneers to settle in the area. Redden paints on a 120 acre ranch, and actively continues to work the land. Strong and reliant, Redden pulls from the very lifestyle he creates, allowing the viewer to participate in his depth of experience. In this, he is continuing to contribute to the heritage of the west while at the same time creating from it.

“The more I paint, the more excited I get about the craftsmanship that goes into a well-made painting…” Redden says. Redden uses multiple layers of paint and color application to build up to the final piece. Up close, the work is completely abstractive; but stepping back makes the moments of varied hue and saturation mesh into a collaborative whole. Much like the partnership needed in ranch life, his compositions and paint application work together to create a synthesis in each final piece. 

Redden's work is heavily influenced by his love of the outdoors and his fascination with how people interact with the natural world.  Growing up on his family ranch in Southwestern Wyoming, Redden has a first had view of the old west - and these are the subjects he holds closet to his heart.  He's able to use relics from his family's past like the batwing chaps his father passed down, prominently featured in "Pidbald Mustang Mare."  Or the knowledge of riding through the mountains, which he did as a kid, just like the scene he created for the largest work in the show, "Trail Through the Ledges."  "We would do this when I was a kid.  We would pack salt and groceries into the Uinta Mountains where herds of sheep would stay for a couple of months."  “With some of my work, I strive to make it look like the cowboy and western life from 1900 to the 1930’s, while my models and landscapes are from what I see daily on the ranch,” Redden notes. Although, many may catch the influences of Frank Tenney Johnson and W. Herbert (Buck) Dunton, Redden’s creations are wholly his own.

THE SUPERSONIC ART SHOP | FOLLOW ON INSTAGRAM

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

🌧️ the sun, through it all, abides ☀️

charthur fic - 3152 words - rating: G - arthur healing - read on ao3

“This sickness inside of me, it’s like climbing the Grizzlies. I can’t come down, there’s no way back. It hurts. An’ when I get to the top– that’s it, Charles. I’m done. It’s a trail made of bridges and I’m burning ‘em, all of ‘em."

“So maybe you can’t see a way back, Arthur,” Charles said. “But there’s always a way forward. It’s a big old mountain you’re climbing. Take the scenic route.”

Charles convinces Arthur to make it out of Beaver Hollow alive. The arid West Elizabeth air is better for Arthur's lungs, but then a week of rain arrives, leaving Arthur's chest rattling and his mind uneasy. Turns out the slow, unsteady weight of getting better is easier to carry when shared.

fic is below the cut!

"Love, in all its forms, is the most powerful weapon we have, because love is a form of hope. And, like hope, love abides. In the face of everything.” - Vinay Patel, ‘Demons of the Punjab’

Arthur’s world had narrowed significantly since his collapse in Saint Denis. It wasn’t like the possible pathways of his future had been so wide and varied before, but with the rattling in his chest there seemed to be only one path ahead: the fork in the road had come and gone, and he had left the freedom of life’s highway for a steep and rocky mountain trail which ended more abruptly than he’d anticipated. 

He’d told all this to Charles, once, at Beaver Hollow.

“This sickness inside of me, it’s like climbing the Grizzlies. I can’t come down, there’s no way back. It hurts. An’ when I get to the top– that’s it, Charles. I’m done. It’s a trail made of bridges and I’m burning ‘em, all of ‘em.”

“So maybe you can’t see a way back, Arthur,” Charles had said. “But there’s always a way forward. It’s a big old mountain you’re climbing. Take the scenic route.”

“The scenic route?”

“Ride with me and ride somewhere slow and warm and dry. Make it easier. Make it out of this chapter of your life alive.”

And when Charles had left, Arthur had followed him, with John following Arthur. 

Now, Arthur’s narrow world is as wide as the views surrounding Beecher’s Hope. Charles and John’s handiwork is impressive even if half-finished, with Charles fixing the ranch up while John runs errands. Arthur does what he can to help out. It’s not much, but it’s more than he was able to do when he was running with the gang, and some days, those burned bridges leading back to a healthier life even seem a little salvageable. The West Elizabeth air is hot, the land is arid, and his lungs are better for it. They have a life here, a real one. It’s good. It’s healing.

It is really, really hard.

When the rain comes to Beecher’s Hope, it comes for a week, and it comes to make Arthur miserable. The humidity of the air combined with the foul weather’s accompanying chill wreaks a wearying havoc on his lungs. John has ridden up to Valentine for a job and gotten caught in a storm in New Hanover, sending word back that he won’t be arriving home until the weather has passed, and so Arthur and Charles are alone in the ranch. In a way it’s nice to have all the time to themselves. But there is so much time, and so little to do with it, and Arthur misses the extra company. With the weather working against his health the way it is, it’s all he can do to make meals on good days, and rest up on bad ones.

It’s weeks like these that Arthur is reminded that climbing this mountain is unrelentingly boring. There are things he simply cannot do, things he used to do often and enjoyed; some things he can do on some days but strictly not others and only at the time will they be made known; a list of things he can do but only if he deems them worth the consequences. 

That is a mighty big part of his job, now. Valuing the worth of something against the consequences. Hardest thing about it is, everything is worth it in the moments before the consequences. But in the gripping fist of a coughing fit, praying he doesn’t bring up blood again, rendered a helpless silvery consciousness in a breaking body, nothing is ever worth it. And knowing that, living through it, how can he make the choice to bring that pain into being again? 

Life has become a constant balancing act, with pros and cons and quantifiable outcomes. There’s a level of mathematics to it which Arthur finds exhausting. He’s always been more for metaphors than mathematics, really. But there aren’t many metaphors for being ill. He can tell Charles he’s climbing a mountain all he likes but that doesn’t stop the fact he’s sore all over in ways nothing can properly fix.

So the amount of things he can do is meager and oftentimes, he finds, pitiful. And very boring.  

“You’re drawing again,” Charles notes as he wanders into their bedroom to check on Arthur. It’s the third day of pouring rain. Charles’ building chores, too, have been held up by the weather, but there’s enough work for him to do on the farm without John here that his dashes to and from the barn are frequent. 

“Hmmf,” Arthur grunts in illustrious reply. 

He’s a far cry from happy, the rain-roused heavy wheezing of his chest making him feel more accordion than human. There’s a dull ache accompanying it. It’s one which threatens more than tortures, but the threat of it is enough to make him uneasy, a fidgety anxiety that combines with the cabin fever to make him feel shit. 

Today, the most he has managed is to drag the rocking chair from its usual corner of the room to face the window. With his journal and charcoal in his hand, he’s sketching the panes of the window and its limited view. Repeatedly, over and over across the page, are little and large visions of the cagey window and the tree just outside of it that blocks most of the light. 

Charles deciphers his cartoons with ease. “You’re restless. Anything I can do?”

“Bring back the damn sun,” Arthur snaps. He bites down on his lip the second the words leave his mouth, disliking the harshness which emanates from them. He hates how he can feel himself being worse to the people he loves over this. He hates that he can’t control his body, and now he can’t even control his tongue. Still, he doesn’t say sorry. 

Charles is gentle as he always is, running a calm hand through the light strands of Arthur’s hair from where he’s leaning against the back of his chair. He is not a man without anger, but he seems to know when Arthur’s isn’t really directed at him. “This tree, it covers almost the whole window,” he muses. “Blocks most of your view.”

“I guess,” Arthur supplies, helpfully. 

“Next time the rain lessens, I’ll chop it down.”

“Charles, you don’t have to do that–”

“I can’t bring back the sun, but I can let a little more light in,” Charles says, like that settles the matter. 

Haltingly, the rain patters to a not-quite stop the next afternoon, the remaining drizzle just bearable enough for Charles to head out in. 

“I’ll chop that tree today, before more rains come,” Charles calls as he makes his way through the front door in lieu of hello. He takes off his hat, holding open the front door and shaking it so that droplets of water roll off the black leather. 

The draft that whistles through the open door is misty and cold. Arthur is glad for the fire burning in the hearth today which wrings the moisture out of the air before the worst of it reaches his lungs. 

He sighs, though, the prospect of another bout of rain settling low and depressed in his gut. “You don’t think this is the end of ‘em?”

“Sorry, Arthur. Clouds still rolling in over Blackwater. It’ll be a few more days, at least. Are the axes in the outhouse?” 

“You know more about that than me, I ain’t got much to do with manual labor ‘round here,” Arthur chuckles, a little sourly. “And I swear, they say tuberculosis is meant to cut your life short but time has never passed more slowly in my life.”

Charles nods, nudges his toes against the fire to stoke it a little. “Keeping a sick body alive is harder than surviving a shootout.” 

“Well, I’d take being shot at any day. Least then I can shoot back. Never once did a job with shootin’ involved that went by so slow.”

Charles huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he makes once more for the door. “How about watching me chop this tree?” he suggests, rolling the sleeves of his navy tunic up his broad forearms as he smiles. His voice is low and rich, like the smoke which rises from a gun barrel after a hunt’s quick kill. “I’ll fell it clean.” 

With that, he turns and heads back outside, leaving the hairs of Arthur’s neck standing. Arthur gets up stiffly and slowly, heading back to the bedroom with the noises of the outhouse doors opening and closing accompanying him. He drags the rocking chair back into view of the window in time to see Charles walking up to the tree with his ax in hand. 

“You sure there ain’t nothing I can do?” Arthur shouts to Charles. He pushes open the window as he does so - some days he can decide something is worth it and the consequences forget to arrive afterwards. Maybe today is one of those days.

Charles hears him, positioning himself at the far side of the tree so Arthur has a clear view of him. Or he has a clear view of Arthur. “Well, you can sit there and look pretty,” he grins.

“I– oh,” Arthur falters, heat rising to his cheeks and likely turning him a bashful pink. “Pretty,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head at Charles’ smile.

“You’re getting some color back,” Charles says, quite seriously, but Arthur can hear the tease rolling through his voice. Arthur waves his ribbing away. 

It’s nice to know, at least, that he hasn’t lost the ability to produce a blush. He’s been pale so long now he’s near forgotten what he used to look like. And for Charles to call him pretty through all that - the perpetual pallor, the gauntness, the loss of the fat by his waist he used to know was his – is something. Arthur looks in the mirror now and sees sickness. Charles looks at him and somehow still sees something good. 

The rain spits down steadily outside the window, Charles’ tunic soon dampening and clinging to his arms. He’s foregone his hat for this, and so his hair, too, is soon stuck against his skin, the strands falling over his face from where he’s tied half his hair back fixed to his forehead. He runs a dark hand through his hair to clear his vision and the moment passes in a pattering heartbeat Arthur wishes he could recapture. 

Charles swings once, twice, brings the tree down on the third slice through the air. It comes down easily, and Arthur watches the world outside his bedroom window be made anew. The sky blooms into being, the gray light of the expansive plains flooding the room. Everything reaches outwards, the fences which had once caged his field of vision now the markers of near distance as the horizon rolls away.  A single patch of blue, once hidden by the branches of the tree, is clear in the sky. 

“That better?” Charles asks.

It’s one tree. It’s a small change. Arthur feels a ray of delight he hasn’t felt in weeks. That’s the one good, desperate thing about a narrow life: the littlest moments of contentment become all-consuming. 

He nods, cheeks dimpling. “Sure is. It sure is.”

**

“Arthur,” a familiar voice whispers softly, lifting him from a dream where he is holding blood-stained money in his hands and can’t put it down, “Arthur, wake up. The rain has dried and the sun is rising. Come outside with me.”

Arthur opens bleary eyes to see Charles lit in dawn’s nectarine light. The curtains are pulled back from the window, leaving its newly clear view to reveal drying ground and open, almost cloudless, sky.  

Finally.

Charles offers his hand and Arthur takes it, gladly, rising from the bed and following him to the front door, slinging on his jacket and boots over his union suit as he goes. He passes from the wooden boughs of the house out into the open air with the deep breath of a wakening yawn in his lungs. There is no dampness to fight against. Just a world which seems to extend from him, the temperature around him at one with that of his skin, the dry air passing through his lungs and out again almost smoothly. Smooth as they can ever manage. There’s no cure. No real healing, not properly. But there’s this. Things in his body aren’t ever okay for long, but they’re okay for the moment, and Arthur has this. 

He sits himself down on the step of the porch. His boots, grown clean without use over the past few weeks, gain a fine coating of dust around where the sole meets the leather again. Charles sits to his right and the morning thrums, quiet around them, with little hints of life. A spider spins its home along the wooden railing of the porch. 

“Thanks for wakin’ me,” Arthur murmurs.

Charles smiles. “It felt important.”

“I’ve been– bad to be around, these past few days,” he manages to say, tugging up a blade of grass from the ground beside him. He flips it between his fingers as he gets the rest out. “Ain’t made things easy for you. I want to do better. Don’t want to be no fair weather friend. Literally.”

“What you’re going through, it’s not easy.”

“Neither is what you’re doin’.”

“Maybe,” Charles nods. “But allow yourself some grace, Arthur.” 

Arthur bumps his elbow roughly into Charles’s side. “Jus’ take the damn apology.”

“Okay,” Charles concedes, and Arthur can feel his shoulders shaking with gentle laughter as they rest against him. 

The mountains in the distance are plummy, ripening in color with the rising sun; in another world Arthur is sinking his teeth into the skin of them and reaching the softness beneath. The light shimmers down in tangible rays. Once, Arthur could’ve traveled far enough to reach out and touch them.

“Mornin’s like this… I used to ride through the night, sometimes, just waiting for the light to stream down through the clouds. Made it worth it.”

Charles hum in agreement. “There are many things you can say about this world, but you can never forsake its beauty.”

“Yeah,” Arthur mutters. Bitterness creeps back into his voice, seeing all this beauty, and knowing it has to be held at arm’s length.

With an intuition saved just for Arthur, Charles hears his discordant tone. “What are you thinking about?”

“I guess– I miss riding how I used to,” Arthur sighs. “Look at ‘em plains, just sprawlin’ outwards. Years ago I could’ve jumped up on a horse and flown over ‘em all, wouldn’t’ve even looked back. Now I’m just– just here. Can’t do anything the way I used to. And it makes me think I won’t ever get it back.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the sloping horizon, staunchly away from Charles’ sympathetic gaze. Frankly, he knows that he’s being dramatic about it all, wallowing in self-pity when there’s no need to. The fact he’s living is a goddamn miracle. Problem is, he can’t remember the last time he felt properly alive.

“We can rebuild it, Arthur,” Charles murmurs. His shoulder is warm and sturdy against Arthur’s arm, the muscles thick in a way Arthur’s no longer are. “All is not lost. We can rebuild it all.”

Arthur can’t help it; he turns his head to look at Charles and the desperation in his voice cracks out. “You think?” 

“Yeah,” Charles says simply. No promises; they’ve learned long ago that there is no point making promises. But still, if Charles thinks it, then maybe Arthur can too. 

“Okay,” he agrees, a faint smile flickering across his lips. And then– “sorry for sounding so desperate, makes me feel like a goddamn fool.”

Charles shakes his head. “You don’t sound desperate, Arthur. Even if you did, I wouldn’t judge you for it. You more than anyone has been through hell. You know another word for desperation?”

Arthur scoffs. “I dunno – weakness? Fear?”

“Hope,” Charles says, entirely paradoxically, yet with the steadfast sincerity with which he always speaks.

“I think you need to find a dictionary, friend,” Arthur chuckles. “Those are some very different words.”

“No, I meant what I said. Hope and desperation – both come from wanting a better life. Wanting a better way of being, wanting something to turn out right. I say desperation and you say weakness, maybe because to be desperate about something is to care so strongly about it. Desperation is vulnerable. It’s intimate. It’s hope without belief.”

The sun is risen, now, a fledgling held in tender hands and being released skywards. It floats over the land and cloaks the plains in the celestial mist of dawn. Light lingers close to the ground, and dust kicked up from a rider on the road into Blackwater glows with it. The rains ceased, the darkness receded. The sun, through it all, abides. 

Arthur hums. His throat rattles with the sound of it, though a cough doesn’t catch, and when he speaks his voice is raspy for a different reason. “Do you believe in me, Charles?”

Charles’ eyes meet his and in the dawning light the deep brown of his eyes is spun golden. “Arthur, of course I do.”

“I believe in you. All the time.”

“Then there’s hope in you yet,” Charles smiles. “It’s a thing that builds, I think. Over time. The world will come back to you.”

Arthur lifts Charles’ hand from where it’s resting on his knee and gently turns it so the paler skin of his palms face upwards. Places his own hand over Charles’. 

“Starting with us,” he makes plain. He can make it no plainer than this, his world and all its desperation and hope falls away without Charles by his side. His partner huffs out a fond sigh beside him and Arthur nudges him with his knee, thoughts straying from the philosophical to the more physical. “You were sayin’ something ‘bout being vulnerable. Being intimate,” he begins, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hmm, was I?” Charles laughs coyly. “Seems to have slipped my mind.” 

But he leans right into the kisses Arthur nuzzles into his hairline, grabbing at the hand not already in his to thread his fingers between Arthur’s. His body is warm as the rainless air. And Arthur knows it’s a hard climb up the mountain. Feels it every day, slow and unforgiving, both restless and demanding. But for as long as the sun stays rising, as long as the scenic route lends him moments like this, there is a feathered thing singing an old song within him. Charles takes his narrow world and finds ways to make it wider. The song carries on, and Arthur is starting to believe it’s worth listening.

[wandering-jana]

The West Fork Trail in Sedona, Arizona.

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