Wandering Wall (Book Part 26)

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Why isn’t she in Hollywood? I wonder. Her pixie-like frame, the soft slope of her nose, and her white-blond hair that moves as though it’s one with the wind all suggest someone larger than life. This far above civilization, she seems like an actress seeking solace at the mountain’s highest point.

A small photograph rests on the splintered and graying picnic table near her easel. Curiosity nudges me forward. “What’s that?” I ask. She picks it up and holds it out. “My cat,” she says.

The photo sharpens in view: a cat, its orange and yellow fur outlined in black. I glance between the photo and her painting on the easel. “Very nice,” I offer with a polite smile. Her work hovers just above basic kid-level drawing—mediocre at best, nowhere near Bob Ross territory—but I keep my critique to myself.

She studies her painting for a moment before bending down and retrieving a brown sack from her feet. From it, she pulls a deeply reddened tomato. “Would you like this? It’s from my garden—organic and sweet.”

I take it, a little surprised, and thank her. She gives a brief smile before saying, “I better get back to painting.” Taking the hint, I nod and head back to my car, the tomato cool in my hand.

The sun filters through the dense alpine evergreens, its heat is less oppressive now. Still, I’m eager to explore the creek I noticed earlier. Minutes later, with the inner tube gifted by a couple a few days prior, I follow the trickling water, scanning the narrow banks and winding edges for a spot wide enough to float.

I find a deeper stretch and lean back. The water is shallow, the current barely moving, but it’s something to do. Before long, the cold shade seeps into my skin, and I climb out, bikini bottoms chilled and clinging.

Back at a fully sunned picnic table, I sink onto the wood’s warmth, close my eyes, and let the light behind my lids shift and dance. The world softens around me, and soon, I drift into sleep, the peacefulness and serenity wrapping itself around me like a quiet promise.

I wake with a start, as though a firecracker was lit, and look around for what woke me. Turning, I see the space where the woman’s car once sat is now empty, and after surveilling the scene I’m still unsure what woke me. I decide to move on as well.

Back on I-90, signs punctuate the roadside. Free Ice Water, reads one, accompanied by a caricature of the sun, sweat dripping down its face. Another billboard features a cowboy astride a rocket ship, blasting through the stars. It’s a Blast, proclaims the tagline. For miles, similar advertisements litter the landscape, their quirky charm finger curls me toward the town Wall. An hour later, I give in. After all, these signs are such entertaining company; that it feels almost obligatory to stop.

I turn off and pull into an overflow parking lot. It’s undeniably a tourist town. Groups of people file out of their cars, grabbing purses and sunglasses, and locking their doors behind them. I watch for a moment before stepping out, a small thrill building.

There’s something liberating about walking into a town I’ve never visited. It feels like I can be anyone I want here. Back home, I’m tethered by who people expect me to be. But here, as I stroll through Wall, I feel invincible—like I can shed those constraints and step into someone else’s shoes entirely.