I went back up Tiger Mountain, the High Point Way trail that cuts through a former homeless camp, Tent City 4. That camp kept getting moved until it landed here, at the base of Tiger Mountain smack dab on the freeway and by a small creek. Now it was all gone, just a forest road for utilities trucks and a gate you climbed over, a sign saying High Point Way.

I started the trail in the dark by the sound of the freeway and the creek, though it was so cold lots of it was ice. I’d made the mistake of getting blisters on my heels my last time out and after a week of caring for them I undid all my recovery by taping my heels but not dressing the wounds first and tearing off the new skin when I yanked off the tape. Now the wounds looked like small red mouths or that gaseous eye on Jupiter. I dressed my heels with blister treatment and tape again, liner socks, and this time used a “heel lock” lacing system to prevent vertical friction. Did many miles with no pain.

It is very hard to think or write about anything now other than what’s going on in our country. I am touched by the people of Minnesota and all around America who have come out in protest against the paramilitary group ICE, who’s now murdered two innocent civilians this month, Renee Good and Alex Pretti. I’m touched by the bravery and resilience of those civilians filming it all on their phones and taking pepper spray and teargas for their resistance.

And so I go to the hills to get away. Up higher to the viewpoint of Tiger no. 1, then the number 2 lookout, and last number 3. From these vistas, views and mountains, water in every direction. You can really feel removed from it all though the truth is, no one is. Like some volcanic eruption, the black ash from the dictator’s mouth extends all over the earth.

Coming up to the first viewpoint, I forgot how dystopic it feels with the clear cutting they’ve done along one stretch. It’s now flagged to mark the route because the way is sketchy amid toppled, downed trees and upturned earth. This is what a managed forest looks like, and what those forest roads are for: logging trucks. You can see the beauty and devastation mashed up right against each other.

For maybe two weeks now when I meditate I’ve had the same Bon Jovi song in my head. There is no hope of shaking it now, so it’s just my mantra. It’s a version of Wanted Dead or Alive that sometimes drifts into Livin’ on a Prayer. (If I liked these songs I wouldn’t admit it here.) The DJ played an obscure cover of a Bon Jovi song and it reactivated some part of my 14-year-old brain, rocking out to it in my friend Steve Bishop’s bedroom. We had nothing in our lives then, pre-internet. Bon Jovi filled the void. The ‘80s were so new then, what did we know.

In meditation now I can’t stop thinking about Alex Pretti, his family and friends. The pictures they showed of him on the news, candid shots of him smiling on his bike. The administration was quick to lie and divert blame, to label him a domestic terrorist. He was an ICU nurse at a veterans hospital. After all we’ve been through (and put the world through) you’d hope that truth and justice would prevail in the end. It seemed like we were starting act five of a very long play. That in the end people camouflaged as trees would emerge from the forest to slay the mad, tyrannical king.

Featured image from channeldraw.org.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction

Tags: ICE, Minneapolis, pacific northwest, yoga