Images courtesy of author.
Human cities have a mental and emotional texture to them — I suppose some people call it a vibe, but it’s always felt more like fabric rubbing against my brain than an actual vibration.
There are (of course) fabrics that are pleasant to touch, just like there are those that are dull, dirty, damp, electrified, dry-cleaned, silky, well-worn or crisp denim, distressed, knitted, soft, lush, pilled, jagged, cotton, that weirdly dense and magical fur that they line socks with for cold winter nights, or even mesh netting. The overall sensation can be as varied as rubbing the broken dreams of a thousand strangers across your eyes before coffee, or jumping into the perfect temperature lake at the height of a hot day. An inspirational mecca for one can be a barren hellscape for another.
I live in Cle Elum, Washington — or, I should say: I rent a lovely little studio over a barn in the mountains outside of town which served as home while I attended school. I treasure waking up to the predictable screams of roosters in the morning and looking out my windows to see towering trees and, crucially, no neighbors. A little capsule of solitude, which, to the outsider, could seem jaggedly at odds with my endlessly fluttering and social butterfly soul.
My partner lives in Richland, Washington. To my delight and surprise, we have found ourselves moving towards a more life-long arrangement, replete with adventures, laughter, a sense of friendship previously unmet by either of us, and all the gloriously terror-filled challenges of building a future together.
The caveat emptor to this bliss-ensconced future has largely been my dread of moving to a larger city — any city, but in particular, to the Tri-Cities. Without the fanfare of a drawn-out dip down memory lane as to why this might be the case, suffice it to say that the texture of this region has initially felt like goat heads buried in a scratchy but flashy wool sweater worn in a warm house against bare skin. This has had nothing so much to do with the wonderful humans I have met in the area as it has with the speed and crush of humanity here operating at asphalt speeds — a steady assault against my equilibrium.
When you drink coffee while walking, you consume it differently than when you settle into your favorite chair with a good book or a project in front of you. I’m learning that I had been drinking coffee like Richland while careening down an obstacle course of life at breakneck speed. Part of this recently clicked when — oddly enough — I got out of my car and decided to go careening down Badger Mountain on a bike, instead.
It happened after spending some months appreciating the absurdly lush parks and river trail looping around the Columbia; I pushed us to the limit of our adventuring spirits and gave mountain biking a shot. We are both avid hikers, and Badger Mountain has been our local substitute for the loftier peaks of the Cascades. While our mutual preference was consistently for mountain trees and lakes, The Badger continued to afford us regular play opportunities when a three-hour drive to the big hills was simply too much.
It was an easy connection to select as a testing ground to stretch and explore what the shrub steppe had to offer for mountain biking. Our first experience was both challenging and engaging. It turns out that dirt and gravel demand a different degree of trust in your tires and skills than paved roads. We enjoyed it immensely, and teed up a second run feeling more confident.
A friend joined us as we left the Dallas Road parking lot at 6:30pm on a Monday, finding ourselves nearly alone on the hillside as we pushed upwards. It was a cooler week of temperatures and the air was ideal for pushing hard. Matched with the long shadows of a deepening evening and sunset colors as we crested around the loop of the ridge facing West — well, pictures can’t do the justice I’m searching for with words. All of this was capped with the undulations of the gentle rollercoaster that was the trail beneath us.
Somewhere during the descent — the constant feed of ordinary life narrowed in those perfect moments of childlike exuberance — everything came together and an epiphany broke open.
Our journeys through life imbue each of us with a catalog of encumbrances, attachments, desires, and attractions. Like any substance applied immoderately or improperly to a chemical reaction, shitty things can sometimes hold sway over good (or potentially good) things. A meaningful belief that cities are horrible, carefully cultivated from a lifetime of survival in rough situations, can reasonably serve an important purpose in protecting the believer from harm. Any belief untested or held to be sacrosanct and inviolate to the changing patterns of life can easily become restrictive instead of liberating.
I was having fun. I was — and have been — enjoying various facets of my burgeoning Tri-Cities life. I had a group of friends steadily growing, as it always does. (Amazing people are amazing people regardless of where you find them.) I have been constantly surprised by the quirky fabric of storefronts, activities, and environments in an area I once swore that I would never live in.
For those moments on the side of Badger Mountain with the wind whipping past my face and the speed ripping joygasmic whoops out my lungs, I was as carefree and as wild a child as I’ve ever been in my thirties. I carry myself with me, and wherever I roam, I can — and will — find myself at home.
In the crash of sunset hues yanking my shadow into the spitting gravel of tires biting into the hillside, the mental texture of this region took on a new feel. I don’t know if there is a word for how-it-feels-to-fly-on-a-bike-staring-at-orchards-in-a-desert-with-your-childheart-laughing, but if there were, that would be it.
Skye is chronically over-caffeinated and enthusiastically confused about life, its mysteries, and the beauty of our brief travels through this layer of existence.
