NO POINT A, NO POINT B – SHIRTTAIL CANYON ROAD

YEARS AGO, following a misplaced directional sign way to hell and gone out in the woods, I ended up on a road that I hadn’t intended to take. Yesterday, I found that road again. This time, with intent, I took it.

Lost in the region bounded by Colfax, Iowa Hill, Sugar Pine Reservoir and Foresthill, Shirttail Canyon Road, doesn’t really go anywhere. It simply follows a creek in to and out of a little eight-mile long ravine. There was no point A at one end; no point B at the other. No village or berg or derelict mining camp anywhere along the route. No alpha. No omega. No reason at all, that I could see, for this particular road to go in this particular direction. To be certain, there are better roads – smoother with more engineering – in the immediate area.


I MAKE SEVERAL STOPS to explore things I might otherwise miss if I simply raced by.

A wonderful cluster of bush lupine – actually several of them – clung to the top of the cut bank on the uphill side of the road. Dismounting a moment, I scramble up the little bluff to examine the blossoms and to uncover that hidden claw for which the lupine derives its Latin name. I snap a digital photo which comes out remarkably well.

A few hundred yards on, one of perhaps dozens of spring rivulets seeps down the mountainside, running through thick, verdant moss. After a week or two of dry weather, this moss will turn brown and disappear until the rains return in winter. I touch the spiraling, spongy leaves and let the water squeeze through my fingers. Then I struggle to pull my riding gloves on over wet – and now cold – hands.

At a point, an ancient madrona is locked in battle with a black oak. Roots entangle one another, wrapping around a slate-like chunk, grasping for nourishment from the scant soil in this rocky terrain. Limbs stretch skyward seeking the energy of a sun that rises and sets within mere hours deep in this canyon.

A doe that has chosen to run along side for a few yards surprises me.

Poison oak grows vigorously in select spots.

Then there’s the suspension bridge, built probably a hundred years ago, still in rickety service to the rare passer-by. It swings and gives and sways side to side as the weight of the motorcycle clatters across the ancient steel decking, warped by a century of travel.


AS I RIDE, I think about story. I think about the elements that go into writing a compelling piece. A piece with an arc. A story line. I recall that every element the author places into his or her text must contribute or move the story forward. When editing, one must jettison those words or phrases that don’t move the reader from point A to points X, Y or Z. A difficult task for a writer who has given birth to those words he or she is about to axe.

Then my mind wanders back to this road. There is no point A or point any-other-letter along this route. Perhaps it is a road with no story. No place names or passions. No human drama. No life or death quandaries.

When all was said and done, my ride down the Shirttail Canyon Road really didn’t take me anywhere. However, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss the lupine, or the cascade, or those tangled roots, or that jiggly, antiquated suspension bridge. Like a good story, once I’d descended to the other end of Shirttail Canyon, I knew I’d been somewhere.

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press

Iowa Hill Cemetery

AT REST IN IOWA HILL

I’D PASSED THE IOWA HILL CEMETERY many times, and today I stopped. On the north side of Iowa Hill Road, graves date back to the 1850s. On the south side, the Catholic Cemetery dates back to the 1860s. Why the Catholics and the rest of us cannot be buried together is a question I’ll have to research. Perhaps it’s easier for God to sort us all out if we do a little presorting in advance. I entered the gate and contributed five dollars to the donation box that must be in place to defray maintenance costs of the departed. Inside this park, under a canopy of black oaks and sugar pine, the temperature is notably cooler. Inviting. The plots view a distant valley carved by a tributary of the North Fork. First impression is that this is not a bad address for one to spend eternity.

Closest to the road, the markers are oldest, each in a different state of decay. I note that the names of those who pioneered this section are different from those of my contemporaries. One settler had the first name of “Plummer.” Plummer Baxter. Great name! I make a mental note to use this moniker for a character in an as-yet-uncomposed story and begin to seek other names that would be more mysterious or period-like than Steven or Jane.

A marker on the Catholic side indicated a fellow came to his reward in 1871 at age ninety-three. I did a little math. Walter Cronkite, coincidently, had passed quite recently at age ninety-two. Tearfully, a nation recounted the monumental events that this titan’s calm personality led us through. I was prompted to think of the romp of history that this Iowa Hillian had seen in his time – beginning just two years after the boys met in Philadelphia to set our nation on its course and ending just two years after a gold spike was driven at Promontory, Utah.

Across the way, a marker listed Martha Irish 1858-1865, John Irish 1861-1865, and Clarence Irish 1865-1870. The travails of our failing economy what with the increase in unemployment, the numbers of folks losing their homes and the political fallout of the cyclical nature of all things economic fell into their rightful place. Unlike the children named Martha, John and Clarence, prosperity would, one day, return.

The stories whispering inside the gates of gold-rush era cemeteries: a good reason to get off the bike.

© 2009
Church of the open Road Press