Flying Again

Gore Hill :: Photographer Unknown

White Cliffs of Dover :: Photographer Unknown

Cottonwoods :: Photographer Unknown

There was a time in my life when I flew without assistance from anything other than the wind and my gray hoodie. I unzipped it, raised it over my head and used it as a sail while hiking with a friend just below the ridge on Gore Hill. We walked through sagebrush and thick prairie grass bent by the wind. My hometown is a perpetually windy city blowing from the north and west, uninterrupted from Canada and the Rocky Mountain Front. We walked through cut banks and drop offs looking for the perfect place to leap from. We finally identified a perfect take-off. They were often just big jumps, but this time the height and distance of my leap with the strong gusty wind racing up the slope carried me weightless, and I flew. That feeling was imprinted forever.

Most of the time though, I only dreamed of flying. When I did, the dream was always the same. It began by running as fast as I could from my front yard, across the street, through the narrow side yard between my friend’s house and the house next to his, and into their backyard towards three Cottonwood trees that defined the back edge of his lawn. Right before I collided with one of them, or had to run between them, I’d get lift at the last minute and fly straight up like a jet, brushing the leaves so cotton and pollen were released into the air. After reaching the top of the sixty-foot trees, I stopped and hovered like like I was in a fight scene from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. After floating there for a short time, gravity took over and I drifted down while trying hard to stay afloat because I didn’t want it to end.

Fifty years later I dreamed I flew again. I’d been hoping to since childhood. I even talked about it with my wife occasionally, describing the one from when I was a kid. I finally did. This time it was completely different. The location was different, I was an adult, and the complexity and risk were ramped way up. There were even people present who appeared to be there waiting for me to fly, expecting me to fly. I don’t remember everyone present, but I know my mother and my father were there. That was the first dream of any kind when they were together again since they’d both passed away. It was also the first dream I can remember that my mom was in sharp focus, rather than a hazy presence. My father had been in a couple before this, one when I even spoke with him, but having both present while I flew was unexpected.

The location looked a little like the White Cliffs of Dover especially with the similar drop off to the sea. After wandering around briefly, without interacting with anyone, and without any preparation, I ran as fast as I could to the cliffs edge and leaped. I knew it was risky because I hadn’t flown in my dreams since I was a young and I didn’t know if I could stay airborne, but it worked, and I began to soar out over the ocean, making gentle turns, and gaining elevation quickly whenever I wanted to. Then arcing gently back towards the cliff and accelerating along the edge during each fly bye. I did that a few times before I eventually didn’t turn back and continued along the ridge for a half mile or so and slowly descended to the shore far below. I found myself alone in the middle of some sort of archeological ruins mixed with more recent abandoned buildings. They were made from disintegrating field stone, concrete, and crude bricks nestled among prairie grass with cut banks like the terrain of Gore Hill. After exploring for a while and wondering why I was in this place, even questioning the dreams’ purpose, it instantly faded. Now I have a new flying dream to hold on to. It feels good to fly, it feels optimistic.

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“Roaring dreams take place in a perfectly silent mind.” Jack Kerouac

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Songs :: 10,000 Miles by Mary Chapin Carpenter, July by Amy Petty, Flying Cowboys by Rickie Lee Jones, Into the Mystic by Van Morrison, and Expecting to Fly by Neil Young

© C. Davidson 

Four Owls

Gibson Flats

Minneapolis :: A couple of months ago my wife heard an owl while she walked our dog near the Mississippi River. When they got home, she was excited and hoped next time she might even see it. More recently we walked him together and ended up in the same area. Just as I was telling her that it would have been my mother’s birthday, she touched my shoulder and suddenly an owl burst out of the trees from the river bluffs. A crow and a falcon dive bombed it and the three of them wrestled mid-flight directly overhead and landed forty feet up a pine tree close to where we were stood. After ten minutes hassling the owl, the crow and falcon gave up, flew out of the tree, picked on each other briefly and disappeared north into the river gorge. The owl perched silently until my wife began to hoot.

Great Falls :: The following fall I was in my hometown for a few days. The day before I returned to Minnesota, I drove to Highland Cemetery on the edge of town to visit the family plot. Whenever I visit the cemetery, I always pay my respects to Charlie Russell’s grave too which is nearby. As I walked, I heard a noise in the distance which slowly grew closer, louder and ended high in an enormous pine tree not far from where I stood. I assumed it was a bird, but it was oddly loud which made it alarming. Any noise in a cemetery, as slight as it may be, is unsettling. It might be a ghost, or a corpse clawing its way out of the ground then levitating towards me like a vampire.

I stared into the trees where the sound ended. If I hadn’t heard it and searched for the location of the noise, I never would have seen it. It was hard to tell what kind of bird it was because it blended in with the enormous pine trees. I grabbed my phone and zoomed in on it with the camera. It was still murky and hard to distinguish, but once its’ head rotated in that distinct way, I realized it was an owl. We stared at each other for ten minutes before it flew south towards the mountains.

Dutton :: The next day I ate breakfast with my sister, packed my gear, and began the long drive home. I looked forward to this leg of the trip because I planned to take Interstate 15 North to Dutton and then east along the hi-line. I hadn’t driven this route in decades. I was anxious to stop in Dutton because my dad’s firm designed a church there in the 1960’s. I’d only seen photos of it and read articles about it. It had won numerous AIA awards, and I’d admired it since I was in grade school. The shape of the building felt a bit radical for this small farm community located in the middle of the wheat country. While the design was contemporary and forward looking, it also reflected the vernacular of barns and other agricultural buildings.

I leaned against the car in front of the church, with the doors and rear hatch wide open and ate a snack. After a while I noticed a dark shape underneath the shaded eave high up on the eastern wall. It looked like something was on the downspout. I walked closer and saw the head of an owl rotate towards me. It was big. I looked closer and noticed a second owl on the other gutter downspout. I couldn’t believe I was seeing two more owls in less than twenty-four hours for a total of three.

All these sightings felt specific and personal, like messengers from the other side during challenging times—breaking through and keeping watch. When I googled owl symbolism, the information was a little dark. Most of it focused on death, but I read further, and it explained that death means more than ‘the end’, it also means transition and change—from one thing to another thing, maybe even from one time and space to another time and space. They’re often invisible but lately I’d seen and heard them arrive.

Songs :: More Than This by Roxy Music, Journey Through The Past by Neil Young, and Don’t Give Up by Peter Gabriel

© C. Davidson