Autumn in the Pass by HEATHER ŠTEFANEC
Unbelievable, the nostalgic yellow already adorning the roads to the Pass. I can traverse back and rediscover red maples, dried, if I gaze long enough. I can stroll past the ice cream shop by my childhood home, catching the warm vanilla aroma, envisioning the man I would become a wife to. Raised in skipping joy, with Ariel-red hair, I longed for legs to race across farmland, hide in cornfields, witness lakes sliced for true ice cream. Love, a gift both simple and sweet.
Ascending to a concealed nook at 2678' elevation, orange screams amid yellows and reds, akin to jack-o'-lantern faces plucked from my father's garden. Mountains don't mind my prolonged stay. I vanish, engulfed in peaks dusted with golden bedding, softer than any memory. They beckon me to sink into their embrace, a hazy rosy glow casting a rainbow shimmer. Silence, a forgotten art, unveils a musical chirping.
Squirrels abound, the arctic ground squirrel my favorite. They play, teasing me while I gather crowberries and blueberries. Their fur transforms with the season, a mucky blonde replaced by a red fox-colored coat. Fragile yet thriving amidst grizzlies, in expansive, precious space. I hide, they play, a bird startles us in unison. Fragility resides in existence within existence.
Ascending higher, I yearn to merge with the melody of nothingness and everything. The misty East unfolds inherent events, wind pointing in time at the base of my skull. I desire absolute freedom, time's cessation to breathe this air eternally. Yet I come to forget the ticking, to meet freedom alone, to reimagine my bond with the natural world—the closest I can get to you.
Glaciers loom, boats retreat to frosty harbors, and night ravens flock. Leaf-thin, I contemplate entering universal flakes of passion, settling into dreamy hibernation under rose leaves—a ball of heat curled into the chest amidst the largest brown bear. Nature's impartial law forewarns of a dire winter, with fog leaving us alone in gray.
Evening approaches, raking the unseen atmosphere. The seemingly empty sky recalls all nature bestows. Time and soft snow settle onto leafy skin, unveiling every fiery fiber beneath. The mountain. Me. Us. That fire. That spark. In us, in our natural world, keeping it aglow. Yet we live to forget the light's inevitable departure, letting it avalanche down upon us.
Turning away hurts, feeling the crowds rise, the mountains yearning for slumber. Up here, I perceive the distance, the gains in satellites that could save me if I fall. Yet I implore the mountain to keep me here, alone, to pen tales of old things, new things, fantastical things. In its magnitude and magnificence, this nonhuman world is love, and I revel in the privilege of feeling it. I need the mountains, and the mountains need me. Freedom is here. Freedom is falling.
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- CREATIVE WORKS: FICTION & PROSE University of Alaska Anchorage Department of English