Reading Craig Childs is like reading poetry, mixed in with some natural history, philosophy, personal trauma, and travel memoir. It's beautiful and thought-provoking. This is a story of Child's two-week trek through the badlands of the Navajo Nation with his best friend, Dirk. But it is also the exploration of Childs' difficult relationship with his abusive, alcoholic father and Dirk's violent career as a street cop.
I read this while traveling the lonely roads of the Navajo Nation and while isolating during our first Covid infection.
Some excerpts:
"The flood took a right turn down Hillary Drive, where a steep pillow of water piled against a fire hydrant. The underside of the canoe struck the big yellow nut on top. Water sprang through a sudden crease in the hull. Houses kept slipping by, each tightly packed against the next. People came to their porches. They saw me and shouted. Maybe phone calls were being sent ahead--you gotta see this guy, he's in a canoe! They clapped and raised their fists in the air for solidarity. I was fulfilling some long-held desire of theirs. I was betraying the grids of this enclosing city. Maybe I would be arrested. Maybe I would drown like people do every year in Phoenix floods. Regardless of outcome, I was a momentary hero."
"What do I know myself? I know that wind comes through, that it pulls me apart, that it threads this landscape and carries me off. All night I will wonder what part of me has blown away. Will I wake to find even my soul gone? I have too many loose end, I think. All of me could be snatched by the wind overnight, every small part whisked into the sky until I have been scatted like a dead man's ashes.
Tonight I am ruled at once by a thousand hissing voices. Messages bay from far off, tunneling through air alien to this desert, never staying long enough to sit native with its landforms. There is nothing worth talking about in this kind of wind. Just hold on."
"He glances up at me. He is not certain that this is the way, but he sees in my eyes reassurance, validation of these clues we have found. He thinks that he never would have come to this place alone. This maneuvering that goes on between us, hands reaching to hands, possibilities verified in glances and words, has magnified his abilities. Alone, he is an ordinary man. He lives in his fears and his own hoarded memories. When he comes to me, he feels the broken and jutted pieces of his life fit into mine, forming something whole. We become the light and the dark, carrying inside each of us a part of the other. Together, we are no longer ordinary men. We will find the way."