Through the Sagebrush

When I look behind me, I hear wind.

I open a gate at the back of the yard. The alley is all dirt, lined with wood fencing and stucco houses. Hills start low and repeat back in higher peaks.

I packed whole wheat bread, a chunk of cheese, and an apple - even though I'm scared of attracting coyotes. I brought my camera and a novel. I probably won't have time to read. 

My ponytail cuts across my face as I get higher. I remake it into a bun. The mountains are ahead of me now. 'Reflections on snow-covered hills' lyrics run through my head.

My parents were fighting again yesterday. In my journal I wrote that I really should process my feelings about that, and other things, but I didn't want to. I don't want to here, either. 

I'm high enough now to take pictures with my disposable camera. I was going to use up three photos, but the lakebed below is dry today. I only waste one.

Later the sunset causes me to panic a little. I tighten my backpack and rush down through the sagebrush, on the dirt trail, and hope I'm making enough noise to keep away coyotes. I've never seen them but I do hear them at night. 

Before going to bed, I write in my journal that I didn't get to the highest hill, and I will have to try again earlier another day. I fast forward my cassette tape to 'Landslide'.