The Ladder
That pesky ladder again. Almost every time I triggered the morphine drip. It propped itself smack in the middle of my bed. I put out my hand to grab it, to make sure it was really there. But as usual, it stayed just out of reach.
Vivian sat in the corner, leafing through a National Geographic. “Sis,” my voice was little more than a whisper, “is there a ladder on my bed?”
“Do you see a ladder, Warren?”
“I see it but I’m not sure it’s real.”
She didn’t seem surprised. “If you see it, it’s real. Where does it go from your bed?”
“Into the ceiling, I guess. I can’t tell for sure.”
Vivian smiled and raised her eyebrows. “Jacob’s ladder?”
“Maybe. The morphine’s kicking in.” I closed my eyes, drifting into that no man’s land of bizarre drug dreams. The same one came to trouble me again. I climbed the ladder and found myself in a long corridor. Doors, rows of doors on both sides, all closed. I was terrified that I would choose to open the wrong door.
This dream started plaguing me soon after the guy from hospice set up the drip for me. At first the ladder was just in that dream. Now it was showing up when I was awake. Admittedly, a drowsy sort of awake, but at least aware of my surroundings. Propping itself in the middle of my bed, it hovered just out of reach. I told Gundi, but she didn’t want to hear about it. Just a morphine dream, she said, and put her arms around me to keep me safe. Finally, I was too weary to mess with it. Maybe Vivian was right. Maybe it was my ladder to wherever I was going. I hoped I’d open the right door.
This time I got off the ladder and took a few steps down the corridor. The first door was locked and I breathed a sigh of relief. Just as I reached the second one, I heard the old familiar Harley Davidson trademarked idle sound. ‘sweetpotata-sweetpotata-sweetpotata’ was down at the end of the hall. My big beautiful maroon tour glide Harley FLT stood there, motor running, headed into the very last opening. “Custom Built for Warren C. Garrison by Harley Davidson.” The twenty-four karat gold letters on the gas tank glowed in the light shining from what was not a door at all, more like an adobe archway. I smelled chaparral and desert dust right after a sprinkle, sharp and fresh. Life DOES go on! I let out a whoop and ran toward my bike. ‘Sweetpotata-sweetpotata-sweetpotata.’
Alaska, My Last Frontier
The sun rose on a beautiful day; clear and bright. I decided to ride up the Glenn Highway a ways. Today I rode alone. My life was running out and I needed time on my motorcycle to fly down an easy highway with no helmet, to let the wild Alaskan wind sing along my shoulders, to face the inevitable end of life on Earth. I do so love this planet. We all know we must die, but not so often do we have the Angel of Death riding the handlebars right in front of us. When? A few months? A few years? Make it a few years. Like Robert Frost, I have “promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.”
The highway parallels the Matanuska River. Some of the road is truly spectacular right now, running at water level then climbing to a high overlook carpeted with swaths of blue crocus and columbine and dotted with yellow daisies. The Mat Glacier is the source of this river. Near the glacier, White Birch are coming into full leaf and Aspen are in bud. The air swirls heady scent of flowers and new growth.
The mountains here are about 2500 to 5000 feet above sea level, which doesn’t sound like much compared to the Colorado Rockies where I was raised, but the base of these mountains is essentially at sea level. They are as high above their base as the Rockies, but are steeper and more rugged. The upper third is still snow covered this late in the year. Don’t think about the Colorado Rockies right now.
I sat on my bike for a few minutes, looking up at sheep mountain. A herd of Dall Sheep grazed in a small glade, greening with waving grasses and drifts of purple fireweed flowers. Several Caribou nibbled new grass along the road, very common here this time of year. Bald eagles coast the wind currents, just for the joy of it. This is May. Life is happening all around me. Not just happening, but the Earth has burst open and life gushes out, harsh and raw and splendid. It flairs out to all the senses. It fills the cones of my eyes with color; it streams fecund smells up my nostrils; it touches every part of my being, physical and non-physical. Distinctly, I hear bees among the blooms, bleating lambs, bluebirds and robins singing to lure a mate, murmuring of the Matanuska River, ‘sweetpotata-sweetpotata-sweetpotata’. I am alive. I am still here. But soon my body will lie among these glorious valleys and rugged mountains and the Aurora Borealis will wave stunning banners of colored light over its resting place. Here in my beautiful Alaska. Land of the midnight sun.
The sun is low now. I’d best get back to Anchorage. I am exhausted from the ride and Gundi will be waiting dinner. Salmon, fresh off the boat, she promised. She does a great baked salmon. We marry women to take care of them and they end up taking care of us. Hell of a joke, Universe.
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