Nonfiction by Kandi Maxwell
During our last snow storm, without power, cell service, or internet, I decided to take on my neglected photo project: sorting through a large tub of photo books primarily filled with pictures taken by disposable cameras on my many rock climbing, backpacking, and cross country skiing trips. As much as I loved the photos, I doubted my children would want to hold onto scenes of rock routes in Owens River Gorge, mountain ranges they had never hiked, or pictures of people they’d never met. After hours of work, I was able to reduce my photos in half. I could not let go of them all.
I treasured the tangibility of the old photos, the joy of holding them in my hands. The time-extended process of examining people and places, lingering on thoughts of friendships, reflecting on feelings conjured up by experiences—occasions that have made me who I am.
Even at 72-years-old, I felt the camaraderie of past relationships and the intimacy of community. The way my climbing partners encouraged me with phrases like, “you’re almost there,” or “just one more move and you’ve got it.’ I felt the strength and flexibility of my younger, muscular body climbing granite—rotating my hips outward against a warm rock wall, or jamming my hands into a tight, rough crack causing them to bleed, and later, scab over. I felt sweat drip into my eyes, the tightness in my calves on Mount Whitney’s infamous 97 switchbacks. My frozen breath (and socks) as I kick-stepped into icy snow with my crampons on Mount Shasta. The release of endorphins offering both pleasure and peace.
I saw anew the awe-inspiring views of endless mountain ranges from high-country peaks and aqua-blue alpine lakes in the Sierra National Forest. I smelt incense cedars, the aroma of vanilla in the Ponderosa pine, and the minty fragrance of pennyroyal. I heard coyotes’ howl, the whistling winds moaning through steep canyons, and fast waters rushing over falls.
After several hours of sitting and sorting photos, I needed a break. I looked out the window. Snow was still falling with two feet already on the ground. I got up and put on my snow boots and a hooded jacket, grabbed my hiking poles and opened the back door as our three dogs eagerly rushed out to play. Together we walked in the wet, white world. Thick snow hung heavy in the trees. With it up to their bellies, the dogs joyfully hopped about in the white powder. I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket, because of course, I couldn’t resist taking a few more photos of these cherished moments that I will eagerly revisit in the future.
Kandi Maxwell writes creative nonfiction and lives in Northern California. She is a retired English teacher and former back country guide. Her stories have been published in Hippocampus Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Meadow, Wordrunner eChapbooks, and other literary journals and anthologies. Learn about Kandi at kandimaxwell.com.
