Summer Environmental Writing Program

Writings

Jess Miller

The wind spun Selva’s long dark hair as she stared at kudzu cloaking the trees and highway signs as she whizzed past. Trees bowed under the weight of the vine, and it dripped down to pool back into itself. It reminded Selva of the plastic castles in fishbowls, with algae and seaweed draping over the turrets, and the corners all worn away. It framed and threatened the Chevy billboard nestled in the middle, and she wondered how long the sign had been there. The car door was hot on her folded arms where she rested her head in the car window, but it was worth it to have the weight of the wind on her face.
It should’ve taken two hours to drive from Lexington to Daddy’s cabin in Robinson Forest, but she and Mom had already been in the car for three. Selva thought that Mom knew her way—having taken her here for the past three summers, but she’d had to stop several times to consult the map and Daddy’s instructions. Selva didn’t mind the delay; two hours didn’t seem long enough anyway—Daddy’s cabin seemed so far from where she normally lived.
She imagined what Daddy would look like. She’d not seen him since Christmas, and she would be spending the next month with him. She wondered how they would talk. Would they still understand each other’s jokes? She tried to picture him. She remembered the color of all his features—the reddish tint to his face, neck, and arms beyond his sleeve-line, the deep brown of his hair, and his golden speckled brown eyes—but she couldn’t remember how they were arranged on his face. What shape were his eyes; the bulb of his nose? She could only see him smiling, when they disappeared into crows’ feet laugh lines.
After a few minutes they turned off the highway onto a narrower, windy road. Worn rope walking bridges crossed the creek that ran parallel to the one-lane street. She knew that Daddy was from Eastern Kentucky, but she’d never been to the house where he grew up. She wondered if he’d had a bridge in his front yard.
“I think that this is it…” Mom stated tentatively, like a question. “Don’t you think that bridge looks familiar?” Selva yawned and nodded.
“No wonder Gray always had such a hard time driving in Lexington.” She was talking about Daddy, “There each road has five names. Here they don’t have any.”
When the road turned to gravel, Mom finally relaxed into her seat. She ran her hands through her grey speckled auburn hair. Selva caught her stealing a glance in the rearview mirror.
Soon, the chestnut cabins came into view and Selva’s heart began beating a little faster. She didn’t quite feel ready to be here.
They parked and Selva opened the door reluctantly, looking all around the campsite for signs of Daddy.
“Daddy!” Selva called out, not quite loudly, while Mom carried her bags into the first cabin, “Hello!” She walked around the central yard, the fire pit, the volleyball net, the bathhouse. Now she was disappointed that he hadn’t been waiting on the porch for her. That’s where she’d expected him to be. While Selva looked outside, Mom walked up to his cabin, pulling a note off the door. “Well, he did remember” she heard Mom mutter acidly while skimming the piece of paper. “Looks like he’s off playing in the woods. Things to do, you know,” she mocked the way Daddy used to say that last sentence, letting it trail off while handing Selva the piece of paper. She could barely make out Daddy’s scratchy handwriting:

Welcome home, Selva! I’ve run up the side of the mountain real fast. I should be back by 2 to do some creek walking with you if you’re up for it. The door’s unlocked and there are Ale8’s and sandwich fixings in the fridge—help yourself! Can’t wait to see you!
Love, Daddy.

“Honey,” Mom called, “I’m sorry Daddy’s not here to meet you. Do you think that you’d be alright here alone for a bit? I need to get back to mow the lawn while there’s still light. There is a phone in the cabin, and I have my cell phone on me if you have any trouble. Do you have a book to read?”
“Of course, Mom. And I also have the five that you packed for me.”
“And I know he says he has ‘fixin’s” Mom slathered a thick accent on the word, “but don’t forget the trail mix I packed for you—and did you get your vitamins?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Alright Selva. Call me often. Call me tonight, even. Let me know what you are up to and if you are having a good time. If you need anything, I can come down next weekend. Did you get your insect repellent and sunscreen?”
“I’m fine, Mom. And Daddy has his truck here anyway; we can always go to Hazard.” Bla, Bla, Bla, Selva thought to herself. She didn’t like Mom’s tone of voice when she read Daddy’s note, and she didn’t want Mom to leave before Daddy got here. Selva walked with her to her car, though, a champagne Honda Civic, dusted with gravel kick-up from the tiny holler road. She hugged her, breathed in the soft lavender of her clothes and hair and skin as she closed her eyes; she kinda forgave her for the voice thing. Mom hugged so well; she folded Selva completely within her, and let Selva decide when to let go. When Selva finally loosened her grip and stepped back, Mom smiled reassuringly at Selva as she climbed in the car.
“Don’t forget to call me, honey.” She disappeared into gravel dust as she waved out the window.
***
Selva walked back to the center of the five chestnut cabins, and turned around. Each one was labeled with some kind of family or genus of tree that Daddy had told her about, but she’d forgotten them. It was hot outside, but the air wasn’t as thick or muggy as usual, so she decided to climb the magnolia tree while she waited.
The umbrella magnolia here was not like the one in her Mom’s front yard, the one that Mom and Daddy had planted as a wedding gift to each other thirteen years ago. Their tree at home had thick, slick leaves and white flowers that came out at night. Its limbs splayed out almost horizontal and every crook looked perfectly like the back of one of those big lounging couches that she’d seen in old paintings and preserved old houses— the ones that almost looked comfortable, that you had to train yourself to fit. The tree’s limbs almost traced the curve of her back, and she liked to lie on them and let her back grow into the curve of the branch. She felt beautiful that way. Together, she and the tree made a picture. Sometimes, she imagined herself as the center of a painting, one leg hanging off the side of the branch, allowing her flip flop to dangle off her toes, like a lady would let her slipper.
This one’s leaves were softer, in color and texture, and ruffled at the edges. She’d yet to see the blooming of its flowers, though Daddy said they’d blossom as wide as a barrel. Its branches were further from the ground and less conducive to climbing, but perhaps she’d grown enough over the last year to reach them. She could easily touch the lowest branch with her arms, but swinging her legs up was a little more difficult. And she was wearing her new skirt. She swung her legs up to it for several minutes, scratching her shin and hands on the bark before finally settling onto the warm grass to sit.
She didn’t realize that she’d fallen asleep until she felt something nudge her head, “I’m sorry, kid, we aren’t looking for work, but I think the farm down the road needs a stablehand.” Daddy’s voice snapped her eyes open and she saw his squarish figure silhouetted by the afternoon sun right above her. She jumped up and he caught her, lifting her like she was five years old again. Hugging him erased all time that had passed since she last saw him. He smelled like Daddy: like wood and salt and earth. He stepped back to look at her.
“Honey, honey,” he said while he set her down, “Look at you all dolled up. You’ve aged five years in the past five months. Why, you look old enough to vote! If I aged as fast as you I’d be pulling retirement right now, hell, I’d be a modern miracle of science for even living!” Daddy almost sounded serious, but his eyes were smiling in half moons. She couldn’t believe she’d not been able to remember them.
“Selvie, it is so good to see you. I’m sorry about being late. I wanted to set some of the squirrel traps on the north face so that we would have an easier time of it this afternoon. And I never in a million years expected your mother to get here on time.” He smiled lightly and then scowled, looking around. “So…did she just leave you here?”
“Well, she saw your note, and she had to get back to mow the lawn.”
“Uh, huh,” he said under his breath while nodding his head. “Well. How would you like to do some creek walkin?”
***
They began walking. She knew that she wasn’t leading, but she wasn’t sure if Daddy was either. They sometimes talked. Daddy would point out plants. She remembered some of the names, but attaching them to one slick-leaved, tooth-edged plant from another was harder. She liked the Joe-pie plant, the jewel weed that cured poison ivy if you applied it right away, and witch hazel. Mom told her that witch hazel was a good astringent and that it would help her pimples when she got them. She didn’t think she’d ever get them, nor breasts, nor her period. She saw herself graduating college, still flat-chested, and still waiting for an embarrassing story to share with her friends about red stains on white pants, or dropping a tampon in front of Rickey Clark, who always gagged loudly. Here in the woods with Daddy, she was content to not have to worry about tampons or red stains. After all, she couldn’t really imagine telling Daddy she had to go back to camp because of cramps. She couldn’t imagine his face getting any redder than it already was.
They soon made it to Clemons Fork Creek. Selva could again feel the sweat bead in the small of her back, at the base of her neck. Even her arms were slick; it seemed to be seeping through her shirt. She’d worn her favorite t-shirt that day—a white one that Daddy bought her at a soccer tournament five years ago. It was so big on her then, but she always loved it. In red and green letters it said: “Seven Days without Soccer makes One Weak.” She remembered the way that Daddy had giggled after seeing it. He never bought her clothes, but he barely paused before taking this shirt to the register. As she felt sweat seeping through the shirt, she cringed.
“Ohhh. I’m getting my shirt all dirty!”
Daddy had paused to untie his shoes while leaning one hand against a tree. “Ah, Selvie. Don’t worry about sweat! There’s this guy that lives around the corner from you—your Mom used to work with him at the university, he’s a writer—name’s Guy Davenport. Anyway, he’s got this great quote: “Dirt is anything we feel ought not be where it is.’” Daddy paused, but Selva’s face didn’t change. “The point is that dirt, and other things like sweat, that other people make you feel are dirty, aren’t bad by nature, they are just frowned upon by society. Sweat isn’t dirty—it’s exactly where it should be, it’s your body just trying to take care of itself…trying to cool down. It is really brilliant, actually. You don’t appreciate the beauty of sweating outside until you get stuck in a suit and tie in an office, where it’s seen as a heinous crime against civilization to sweat. Because you’re supposed let the air conditioning, which is powered by coal from these mountains by the way, to control your body’s temperature for you. And when you do sweat, your coworkers condescend to you, students laugh, make faces, yada yada yada.” He paused from unstrapping his boots to flick his hand animatedly. “But here, where you can let nature run its course, the wind comes and licks off your sweat—just feel how cool that breeze is on your wet back. It’s brilliant isn’t it? The air absorbs your excess water and gives it to something else.” He stuffed his socks in boots, and tied the laces back together to carry over his shoulder. “You become part of a cycle that is larger than you.” He then looked around him; at the rocks in the creek, at the trees, and at the reeds bent by the current. He would know what those were, and what their role in the cycle was. Selva watched him until his gaze ended its round and settled back on her. She looked down, to a cluster of yellow butterflies fluttering slightly on a patch of moss.
“Oh!” she cooed as she leaned in a little closer. They were so distracted, they didn’t even move.
“Look at em Daddy! It’s like they have powdery make-up all over their wings! They are so beautiful!” Daddy leaned in to look.
“Yeah. Those are Tiger Swallowtails, Eastern Tiger Swallowtails. That powder is nothing like make-up; it is what enables them to fly. These wings were developed in a cocoon that the caterpillar builds in order to transform into a butterfly. They used to be caterpillars—and you should see them then—at first they hatch as brown and white larvae that looks like bird poo—which I would say is beauty right there, what a clever way to disguise oneself but to look like a pile of poo! But then they grow into a fat little green caterpillars, and then build cocoons to become butterflies. Even though the whole process only takes about a month, it is a natural acquisition of a beauty that they own. It isn’t like make-up because it actually serves a purpose besides.”
Daddy paused while Selva watched the butterflies uncoiling and coiling their tongues to collect water from the moss. Selva was replaying a conversation that she and Mom had when Selva tried to wear blue eyeliner to school this last year. Mom told Selva that wearing make-up was supposed to look natural, to highlight your features. The point, she said, was to look like you weren’t wearing anything.
“Daddy, did you not like it when Mom wore make-up?” Daddy paused for a moment.
“Selva, your mom and I disagreed on a lot of things.”
***
They walked back down to the cabin, where the smell of black beans greeted them. Daddy had put some on to cook. Daddy had always liked to cook, but tended to fix the same things. He called himself a dirt snob, and only liked to buy organic fruits and vegetables, where, “the dirt that grew them was alive, and not that bland, gray, dusty chemical filth.” Selva remembered the arguments about the groceries very clearly. Mom complained that they would be stuck eating only rice and beans if they exclusively bought the organic. But, Mom never much cared for weeknight cooking, and ultimately let Daddy mix whatever cans and greens with rice or pasta that he desired. Daddy always said about Mom that “that woman needs to find religion to make a meal. She’ll eat nothin’ but potatoes all week and then alluva sudden she won’t be able to eat anything unless it is part of a seven course meal, never cooking something twice unless it’s a part of her heritage.” Selva knew what he meant by that. The only dishes that Mom repeated were made from the summer fruits and vegetables that mimicked what Mammie, Mom’s grandmother, made when Mom was growing up.
Each Saturday and Sunday afternoon Selva and Mom spent in the kitchen, just cooking— elaborate, multilayered torts, cold, creamy soups in summer, crusty bread and flavored dipping oils—normally while Daddy was taking a trip to the forest, or working in the garden. Now, with just two to cook for, they rarely indulged in the same extravagance with their weekend meals. But in the summer, when each fruit came in, Selva was guaranteed a pie each week—cherries, strawberries, peaches, blackberries, pears, apples. They still picked the fruit from the cherry and apple trees that Daddy planted. He’d liked those because the sour cherry tree began the growing season, and the apple tree ended it. Selva liked that because she never missed their fruits while she was gone visiting Daddy in the summers.
“You mind puttin’ on some rice, Selvie?” Daddy asked, pulling her back into the kitchen.
“Uh. Yeah. 3 to 1 rice, right?”
“Two to one.” He spoke into the refrigerator door, where he was looking. When he pulled his head back out, he was holding a bottle of Kentucky Ale in one hand and an Ale-8 in the other. “Like an aperitif?” he asked her, mocking a French accent, his default accent for anything and anybody that he was joking about. He’d always called his beer his aperitif while he was cooking. Mom always drank a glass of wine or sherry.
Selva realized that he was offering her a soda—a caffeinated one! She was never, never allowed those at home.
“Yes!!!” she finally cheered, and grabbed her drink.
***
An hour later, they were sitting on the front porch over bowls of ice cream and hot fudge sauce. They were sitting in silence, and Selva’s mind turned to what Daddy had said about Mom. She wasn’t sure why they’d split up, and though she was desperate to find out why, she couldn’t conceive of actually asking them.
“The bobcats are likely roaming around,” Daddy said nonchalantly.
“Mmm” Selva mumbled a reply, only half listening. Selva loved learning about the plants and animals of the forest, but she felt like talking about something that she could talk about too.
“They are most active at dawn and dusk, but don’t worry, they tend to travel alone. You know that several were likely tracking us today? I’ve seen their footprints on top of my own when I’ve retraced my steps. Probably not more than thirty minutes had passed.”
“Daddy,” Selva interrupted, softly. She swallowed hard and asked. “Why did you and Mom separate?” She looked down intently at the vanilla bean specks in her green ice cream dish and immediately wished she’d not said it. She looked at Daddy out of the corner of her eye. Daddy’s eyes touched every surface in the room during the long pause before his answer. They settled on the umbrella magnolia tree.
“Selva, you know how there are, well, there are reasons that you can list out in a bulleted kinda way, things that you may tell a judge in court? Well, things don’t really happen just like that. And though there are reasons, yeah, they make no sense at all when you list em, and yet they matter more’n anything. I mean if I say that it is the woods where I spend all my time, that’s not givin me or your mom enough credit for how we tried to get around that. I didn’t choose the woods over you two, and even though she said it and prolly still does, she doesn’t believe it either.” Daddy shrugged his shoulders and was now looking down at the floor as he spoke. He seemed to be following the path of a spider or bug on the floor.
“Everytime I tried to figure your mom out, she surprised me.” Daddy sat for a moment, quietly. Suddenly his eyes shot over to a nearby tree and darted back and forth, combing through its branches. “There’s a chimney swift over there, did you hear it!”
Selva glanced over at the maple tree by the cabin across the yard, and back to Daddy. That was the most he’d ever really talked about Mom when he wasn’t joking, and they’d been apart for three years. He normally talked with such confidence, but now it sounded more like babbling when he spoke. Daddy finally looked back up at Selva and scooted back in his chair, stretching his arms out for her to sit on his lap. Selva fell into him, hugging him just like she’d done as a child. She missed that. For a moment, she closed her eyes and just felt his arms around her back, smelled the oil in his hair. It was musty.
***
The next morning, Selva woke up before the alarm. She never woke up early at home; Mom usually had to come in three times just to roust her out of bed, but this morning it was before five, and she couldn’t sleep.
Daddy was snoring. He didn’t mumble in his sleep, and never even moved, but just snored—deeply and as soothing as the murmur of a train. She knew she’d get used to that sound; even grow dependent on it to fall asleep. Last summer, when she left Daddy’s cabin and went back to Lexington, she’d set her radio to the static between the stations in order to mimic the sound of Daddy’s steady snores. But now it kept her awake, staring at the wooden slats and wire springs of her Daddy’s bed. After several minutes, half an hour, maybe, the alarm on his watch began bleeping. The bed wobbled as he jerked awake; turning it off. The plastic-covered mattress crinkled as she heard Daddy moan, stretch.
Soon, Selva saw his thick toes searching for the wooden slats at the foot of the bed. Selva closed her eyes and hid a smile as she turned to the wall, moaning like she didn’t want to wake up yet.
“Well, Selvie, rise and shine, up and at ‘em. Devil take the hindmost, better late than never, better never late,” he finished climbing down and sat on the bed beside her, scratching her back roughly. “We got a busy day ahead of us, so sleep’ll come sooner than you know it. What’d you like for breakfast? How’s bout oatmeal and raisins! Why I even remembered to bring the cinnamon and sugar that you like so much!” Selva turned back around to grimace at him.
“Daddy, you know I hate that oatmeal crap.”
“Selva!” Daddy wrinkled his nose and eyebrows as he sat up from the bed and walked into the kitchen. “Your mom let you talk like that? She’d sure as hell’d never let me! Just 12 years old and already it’s as if an oil tanker spilled in your mouth…” He allowed his words to trail off as he opened cabinets in the kitchen.
“And please don’t put the raisins in until after, Daddy!” Selva pulled off the covers and took her clothes to the bathroom to wash her face and get dressed. She hated the way that her Daddy cooked the raisins in with the oatmeal, where they plumped up with oatmeal juices into a pale purple, like her toes when she’d been swimming for too long.
Selva threw her pajamas on her bed and joined her father in the kitchen, where he was pulling out the bowls from the cupboard—the green plastic ones that she associated with the cabin and with Daddy. At home, Mom would use Mammie’s china on the weekends when they ate fresh summer strawberries or peaches and cream for breakfast. She said it was better for the china to use it often and wash it. Selva looked forward to the light green vine that coiled inward toward the very center of the bowl, to the delicate clink of the spoon against the bottom as she gingerly scooped the last bit of sweet cream.
But here she could scratch her stainless spoon on plastic as loudly and coarsely as she wanted to. And when she and Daddy ate ice cream or chocolate pudding at night, she could stick her face right in the middle and lick it and they’d have contests to see who could best clean their bowl. The loser did the dishes. She always got chocolate all over her nose, and she never did the dishes at Daddy’s cabin.
She sat down and Daddy scooped her a blob of oatmeal, smattered with the pale purple raisins. “Daddy!”
“Ohhh. I put them in at just the right time…” He pulled up his chair beside her and plopped down heavily, resting both forearms on the table and his eyes gleaming. “You excited bout the squirrels? I thought I heard a trap spring last night.” He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows twice as she just smiled back. She smiled at how talkative he was in the mornings; she’d forgotten that. She also noticed his Eastern Kentucky accent growing thicker. Mom had always corrected her when her “I’s” got too long, or when she said “ain’t.”
“People will think that you are uneducated if you talk like that,” Mom had told her, “it isn’t that I don’t like southern accents, but people will take you less seriously if you have one.”
“It seems to be decent weather for them. It wasn’t too chilly last night—of course not, it is June, after all, but also it didn’t rain like it had threatened to, so they should have been fairly active. Last time I set traps this spring, I caught 5, before that 8. I’ll bet you an ice cream cone in town to see who is closest without going over.”
Selva thought for a moment, realized that she really had no way of judging conditions compared to other trappings. Selva’d come here for the past three years with her father as he’d been conducting his research on flying squirrels. They’d yet to actually catch one, but she sometimes even forgot that they ever really intended to. So she guessed her soccer number and Daddy’s favorite number: “Three. I bet we’ve trapped three.”
***
As they ascended the steep slope on their way to the traps at the top, Selva tried to remember the names of the trees around her, but often had to ask Daddy to make sure. She would never forget the eery green filter of morning light through the canopy, though. It was enough to dig the sides of her feet into the soft dirt and wet leaves resting on the steep slope, and leaning in to keep from sliding back down. She felt like she was climbing the magnolia tree back home, reaching for the trunk of a tree above her head. But in the woods the route changed every time.
Today, her goal was to beat Daddy up the hill. His legs were so long and sure, and his stride was so consistent. He made it look like the ground just carved steps before him, like his legs never tired, and his breath never shortened. They never talked about how tired they were, but today she felt like her lungs were hollow, and her stomach pinched. She could feel the shape of her oatmeal churning in it. She didn’t normally didn’t sweat much—Daddy said she must have gotten that from Mom—but today she could feel beads tickle down her face and spine, and she had to wipe her forehead with her sleeve to keep it from stinging her eyes. It tasted salty in her mouth, and she could feel it start to dry and crystallize on her forehead, making it gritty.
They finally reached the last large boulder, marking the summit of the mountain. The last stretch required her to lift herself partially with her arms and then swing her leg up to catch herself. It was an easier incline than that of the magnolia tree yesterday, but she still felt her arms emptily searching for energy, and she just barely caught her leg on the side of the rock. Before she could pull herself up, Daddy had grabbed her other arm and pulled her over.
“I could have done it myself,” she muttered under her breath, heaving her left leg over the edge but allowing herself to stay sprawled on the ground. With closed lids, she sensed the light speckling unevenly on her face, a negative image of the leaves above her head. Even though they sat at the peak of the mountain, oaks, black gums, and chestnuts still skied above their heads. She opened her eyes to see their green leaves fanning, reaching, overlapping, and allowing diffused light to peek through. She thanked them for the shade. After her lungs felt full again, she sat up and scooted next to Daddy who was looking out over the edge of the cliff. Below them, the slope declined at a forty-five degree angle, but she still could see the trunks and chests and shins of more trees in at her eye level.
“That’s a serviceberry.” Daddy said, not out of breath in the slightest, pointing to a waist-high shrub with oblong leaves. “This is one of the first flowers to bloom in the spring. Its white flowers told people that the ground had thawed enough to bury their dead. People round here would stockpile the bodies through the winter in their barns. When these flowers bloomed, they knew that they could finally hold the funeral services and bury them.” He nodded at Selva and then back toward the plant. Selva didn’t know if Daddy was kidding or not, but she decided not to ask. She was still trying to catch her breath.
“They’re also called June berries. This one seems too small to bear fruit, but they taste like blueberries when they come.” Daddy twisted to face the wooden block that was nailed to the tree right about five feet high. She recognized the platform from last year.
“You smell that?” Daddy asked, pointing to a pile of wet dog food below it. “That is what keeps the coons from coming and bothering the squirrels. It’s dog food, peanut butter, and water—and they love it!”
She sometimes forgot that they even intended to catch flying squirrels—to her setting traps was merely an excuse to walk through the woods while Daddy told stories about the plants and animals. But, Selva did become aware of the dog food—suddenly it overwhelmed her. It was the smell of rainy summer mornings at home when she had to refill Gumbo’s wet food dish. Gumbo was her black mutt dog that died three years ago; just two weeks after Daddy moved out. He was officially Selva’s dog, but Daddy doted on him just as much as she did. Gumbo stopped playing when Daddy wasn’t around, and spent most of the day sleeping in shady spots. The neighbors accidentally ran over Gumbo after he’d fallen asleep behind their car’s back tire. Selva had never liked the smell of dog food, had never even enjoyed the chore of dumping out Gumbo’s dish, which he never finished on his own. But it took her months after he died to leave the house without feeling like she was forgetting to do something. And the smell, even diluted with the peanut butter brought back a flash of that morning routine; dumping the swollen, soggy rounds of food in the compost pile and looking up at Daddy through the window while he fixed breakfast in their kitchen in Lexington; singing his silly made-up songs while swinging his head. She’d not gotten a dog since then.
Daddy slapped his hands against his legs while standing up. Selva watched him walk toward the cage that was wrapped in foil and plastic.
“Why the wrapping?” Selva asked, “Well, it’s protection both from the weather, and from the predators. I learned the hard way that that was necessary. Actually the first time I caught a squirrel—this spring—I found only its skull the next morning. A raccoon had picked through the rest of it.” Daddy grimaced, pulling out a roll of duct tape. “So—
“What!” Selva cried out incredulously. “You mean the squirrel was just picked apart, little by little while stuck in a cage? It couldn’t go anywhere.”
Daddy paused in the middle of putting up the trap. “Yes, Selvie; that kind of thing happens sometime when you do field work. It isn’t always just hiking and petting cute critters. Sometimes you make mistakes and you hurt the things you care most about.”
“But, just completely pulled apart?!” Selva looked down toward the ground, unfocusing her eyes, picturing a little squirrel head in an otherwise empty cage, picturing a raccoon sticking its fingers in and tugging at the poor thing’s body. She stopped, but didn’t want to look at Daddy’s face. Instead she pulled herself up using a nearby oak tree.
“None here.” Daddy said after peeking in the front of the rectangular trap. He then untapped the cage from the platform and put it in his green canvas bag.
They passed another three that had been tripped. While Daddy peered into the fourth, his eyes danced as he looked back at Selva. “Wanna take a look?”
“Sure,” Selva said flatly. She didn’t know how she felt about the project anymore. But she obligingly looked in the cage whose door had snapped shut.
A trembling little ball of light brown fur cowered in the corner, and Selva forgot everything else. Its big beady eyes were solid dark with a glint of life and the complete awareness that terror brings. Daddy unwrapped the plastic covering, and it scampered from its bedding of cottonballs across the cage in one easy flash. Selva couldn’t tear her eyes from it. It seemed about the size of a hamster. Its claws gripped the cage’s wiring and Selva could finally see “wings.” The extra inch flap of skin opened like sails from his arms to its legs and exposed its downy white fur underneath. In an instant, though, it’d dashed back to the opposite side of the cage, folding its arms back in. She noticed the slight color differentiation between the orangey-brown tail and the russet body; the pinch and hem of the fur at the fringe of their flaps, and the way they ruffled when they were not fully extended. Its big soft pupil-less eyes looked seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once.
“It’s a male. Would you like to name it and let it go?” Daddy asked after scribbling down some notes about the trapped squirrel.
“Yeah.” She said, and whispered, “Gumbo” to herself before opening the door.
Gumbo stepped tentatively toward the cage door that she had pressed facing up against the trunk of a tree. Once he realized he was free, he seemed to glide easily up the tree, his feet scampering fluidly under the skirt of his fur. He clambered around to the opposite side of the tree.
“He’s doing that so that we won’t see him. But right before he takes off, he’ll turn and face downward before launching. That’ll put him in a good position to glide to a tree and grab onto it.”
Moments later, they saw him, another 20 feet from where he hid from them, zipping downward in a J-swoop. His tail, which was almost as long as his body, extended firmly behind him like a rudder. When he hit the tree, it seemed as if three frames had been spliced from a film as Gumbo was instantly transported to the other side of the tree.
Selva sat for several more moments, watching the tree, like Gumbo would magically reappear as quickly as he’d had left.
“It took me so long to figure out the best way to trap these little guys.” Daddy said. “And even now, you are among the one percent of people who’ve actually seen one glide.” Selva imagined a biologist sitting at her desk looking longingly at pictures of the flying squirrel, while Selva only had to walk thirty minutes up a mountaintop. Daddy had been working for years to reach this moment. Looking at his face, his eyes were huge, as large as the squirrel’s as he stood completely engrossed in the upper boughs of the blackgum that the squirrel had run up. She wished that she’d been with him the first time he ever caught one; a live one.
***

Under an hour later, they’d finished setting the traps at each of the three sections of the forest where they’d planned. By this time, the back of Selva’s jogging pants was brown from sliding down the hill to the other sites, and Daddy’s white shirt was transparent and heavy with sweat.
“Well, while we’re here, would you like to hike to the fire tower?”
“Yes, Yes, Yes!” The fire tower was one of Selva’s favorite places. It was the highest part of the forest and she could see everything—from the evening sky, unobscured by the ridge tops, to the folds of the mountains into valleys, to the wooden cabins of their camp below them.
They cut through the woods instead of following the trails and it seemed to take only moments to hike to the fire tower. When they reached it, she stared again in awe up at its skinny red iron legs leaning in against each other as they stretched up and up and up. Selva feared heights the way a snake handler must fear snakes. She respected the length of the fall, revered it even, but was utterly intoxicated by the tingle in her belly when she leaned over a rocky ledge, or a rusty railing.
As they climbed the steps, she could look nowhere but at her feet meeting them, and therefore nowhere but at the ground growing tiny through their gaps. At the top, without the shade of the trees, the sun’s press on her back was hot, though lessened by the wind.
The green lumpy hills that stretched out before her grew texture the longer she stared. Colors deepened, distinguished themselves. Individual trees and then leaves began to stick out. She noticed the greens that her Daddy had taught her: the feathery green of the hemlock, the deeper green of the scarlet oak. She listened to the wind rustle past, thumbing through the trees and against her clothes and hair, like flames. The leaves sounded like the water in the creek: constant. There was static from the crickets and a few scattered bird calls before the bugs took back over. How’d she not noticed them before? Was she really so all consumed in the crunching of leaves and twigs under her feet that she’d not noticed these waves of sound? She looked for the birds and could see them flying in and among the trees; she tried to discern their calls.
She already knew the whippoorwill—that was easy. That was the family call when they’d separated at the grocery store or the fair, or when she was playing in the creek. Daddy’d whistle its three quick notes, rising at the end: “Whip—poor—will, whip—poor—will.” In a mall, it didn’t mean anything to anyone else. No one even noticed but her. She’d whistle in reply with the shortened “whip—poor—will—will—will” and the din of everything and everyone else faded and they were back in the woods. That spring, when the whippoorwills called as she sat in the magnolia tree at home, she thought of Daddy.
Selva thought about her Spanish teacher in Lexington as she tried to distinguish the sounds of the woods beneath her. Mrs. Poore said when someone listens to a language that they don’t know, all the sounds run together, and they can’t tell where words or even sentences start and stop. Being able to distinguish these sounds is one of the first steps toward attaining fluency in a language. She wanted to learn what the birds were saying to each other. Bees danced, she knew, to tell each other where the big stashes of flowers with loads of nectar were. What were the birds saying?
“D’you hear that?” Daddy touched his fingers to her bare arm. “The Look at me, here I am!” he kinda sang, rising in the middle. “D’you hear it? That’s a red-eyed verio.”
She looked at Daddy while he stared completely entranced in the noises of the forest. She watched his eyes. He locked them into the air, slightly to the left when he listened, and suddenly popped his chin up to scan the peaks and valleys when he caught a snag, searching for the bird. She knew that Daddy had found a home in these woods, and she almost envied him for it.
He didn’t look up as she stood from the squeaking tower and descended the steps to the third tier, where the floor widened enough for her to lie down. She’d noticed the sky occasionally in Lexington, but it always seemed out of place against the planes of concrete parking lots and strip malls. Here, the sky and clouds and landscape blended with ease. She watched the feathery clouds that held pink in them, powdery blue ones drifting through the bluer sky, and white ones—that glowed so pure and exotic against the pastels of the evening sky they became a color she’d never seen before. She let the weight of the day ebb out of her—her legs flopped open, her arms wide, holding her in place without effort. She didn’t know it, but she slept.
“Whip—poor—will…whip—poor—will!”
Selva opened her eyes and saw stars speckling the sky through the triangle frames of the fire tower’s upper tiers. She quickly sat up. It was dark. It was night.
“Whip—poor—will—will—will!” She whistled in reply. “Selva, come up here real quick and check out the view. I think you’ll like it at night.” Daddy must have been above her.
She very slowly ascended the steps to the next tier where Daddy stood, looking out over the swath of land that cut straight down the mountaintop to camp. She could see its lights—aside from the lights from the strip mining camps in the distance; it was the only evidence of people in these mountains. Above, she noticed the big dipper almost immediately. She’d forgotten stars could be so bright, they seemed so eager to sear their way through the sky and the tufts of clouds that she could still see.
“How often do you see a stretch of land so big, with so few electric lights?” he asked. She knew she didn’t need to respond.
But as she looked out over the darkness, with the dark mounds of the Cumberland Plateau swelling up and down, with waves of crickets and frogs; insects buzzing, humming, jeering, playing with each other. She imagined how she and Daddy would look to them, the only light walking slowly down the hill. They could be seen by anything.
“Oh shit! I mean horsefeathers,” Daddy scowled. “ I forgot I have to go check on the traps near the creek.” He looked down and then back at Selva. “Do you have your flashlight? Can you make it back down the path if I run ahead to check on the traps?”
She looked up at him. His eyes pleaded to her to say ‘yes’. Think of how proud of you he’d be if you weren’t scared, she thought to herself.
“Sure go ahead I can do it on my own.” She said quickly, blurring her words into one sentence before she could catch herself.
Daddy sighed in relief. “That’s my girl. You got a will made of Kevlar darlin’. I shouldn’t be long. I’ll meet you back at camp for dinner.” Daddy ruffled her hair with his hands and hugged her before turning on his headlamp and skipping down the trail.
Selva watched him as he disappeared between the trees. The idea of walking back alone in the dark slowly crept into Selva’s mind and knees and belly; she felt weak. She thought back to the bobcats watching them; what had Daddy said last night about them? They’d been watching them, yes, they traveled in packs, right? Why hadn’t she listened closer?
She was terrified. Wobbly-kneed, gut wrenching, beady-eyed terrified. Maybe you could even catch up with him, she thought. But already, Daddy’s light was out of sight.
She flicked her headlamp onto the red setting in the hopes that the bobcat could only see blues, yellows, or greens, and she held it in her hand to make the smallest light cone possible. Then, she started down the narrow, rocky trail.
She let the light enshroud her like a blanket and pretended that there was nothing outside of her little red periphery. She heard a twig crack to her left. She paused, forgetting for a moment how to exhale; too scared to try. Calm down, she thought. Stick to your red circle. Nothing really exists beyond that, you are safe in your red circle.
Insects buzzed constantly in the background, but she could hear them, seeming to defend small territories. She passed by a cloud of sound in the trees to her left, what sounded like twenty bugs chittering. And then abruptly, they went silent. The change startled her. Why had they stopped?
She walked along a few steps further but found it more difficult to see what was in front of her. Was it her imagination, or was her light fading? She looked up for a moment to make sure nothing was coming, but when she looked back down she could barely see the ground. She tried to click the light to its white setting, but almost immediately after doing so, it flickered out entirely. Everything went black.
Her throat clamped closed, seemed swollen—and everything in her chest froze completely still. Her heart didn’t even seem to beat, her blood didn’t pulse, nothing moved. She wanted that. To not move. To have nothing at all in the forest move.
Her eyes flitted around her, scanning the trees, tracing their shapes, urging them to show her more. She still didn’t turn to look behind her—nothing to move her head, her body, or her legs. Only her eyes moved.
Shapes formed around her; purple blobs shifting from formlessness into a bobcat, two bobcats, peering, then rearing, preparing to pounce. Then they faded. It was just the trees. Yes, she thought, it is just the trees, just the trees. She fiddled again with her head lamp, pulling off the battery case and turning them, hoping to shake loose around some of the acid. She tried every setting, two, three, then five times. All right, she thought, finally allowing herself to exhale and sucking in another lungful of air immediately. A flash of Daddy came to mind. Think of how proud he’ll be if I make it without a flashlight. Selva exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled.
Selva looked around her again—saw one tree end and another begin. Rocks rose from the path and stole some light from the stars and sliver of a moon hidden in the sky somewhere. The silenced crickets raised their voices again, and no twigs snapped. This is okay. I can feel my way down. Careful steps, just don’t step without first feeling. I can do this.
Selva straightened her back a little and lifted a foot to feel the ground in front of her. A rock moved a bit beneath her right foot and she settled it a few steps further to the right where the ground seemed firm. Yes, she thought, I can do this.
Selva’s first few steps were very tentative, and she wobbled a little on the path. But as her eyes adjusted to the light, the path became clearer and clearer, and she realized that she seemed to hear more with a sense of the distance between her and the crickets than she had before. She looked down at the path, and could see it.
As she walked, she realized how she blended when she didn’t carry a light. Just like any other animal out here. Daddy said that the bobcats wouldn’t attack her; they just wanted to watch her. Selva was walking at a comfortable pace now, and could look up every few steps to scan the silhouette of the forest around her. She saw a few stars peeking through the canopy. She saw the tiny lights of camp below.