Gore Hill — Great Falls, Montana :: Image–Photographer Unknown
Cottonwood Trees and Pollen Release :: Image–Photographer Unknown
White Cliffs of Dover :: Image– Karen Roe
There was a time in my life that I actually flew, without assistance from anything other than the wind and my gray hoodie, which I’d unzipped, raised over my head and used as a sail. I was hiking with a friend on Gore Hill just below the ridge, through sagebrush and thick prairie grass, some of it bent by the wind and some from its own weight. My hometown is a perpetually windy city — sometimes it’s a breeze, but it’s often a constant wind. It blows in 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 ones to leap from. The soil and terrain there was like other parts of the west where you find things, like marine fossils from the great rivers and receding seas, to partially exposed prehistoric skeletons. We identified another perfect take-off. They were usually no more than big enjoyable jumps, but this time the height and distance of my leap, the strong gusty wind racing up the slope along with my small stature all at the same time, carried me weightless and I flew. That moment and 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 Curt’s house and the Novis family house, into his backyard towards the 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 would abruptly get lift and take flight straight up like a jet — brushing the limbs and leaves gently, but enough to release cotton and pollen into the air. After reaching the top of the forty-foot trees, I slowed down quickly and ended up hovering like Peter Pan and posed like I was in a fight scene from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. After floating there for too short a time, gravity took over and I would drift slowly down while trying hard to stay afloat because I didn’t want it to end.
More than fifty years later, I had another flying dream. I’d been hoping to have one for decades since they’d ended. I even talked about it with my wife periodically, describing and reliving the one from when I was a kid, trying to will it to happen again, or any other type of flying dream, but it never did until a year ago, out of the blue. This time it was completely different, the location was different, I was an adult, the complexity and risk were ramped way up, and there were other people present who appeared to be there waiting for me to fly, expecting me to fly. I don’t remember who all was gathered, but I know my mother and my father were there. That was the first dream of any kind I’d had where 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 blurry, almost invisible presence. My father had been in a couple of my dreams alone before, one when I even spoke to him, but having both of them present while I was flying five decades later was unexpected.
The location looked a little like the White Cliffs of Dover. It had a 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 boy and I didn’t know if I could actually stay airborne, but it worked, and I began to soar out over the ocean, making gentle turns, gaining elevation quickly and whenever I wanted to, and 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 along with more typical, abandoned buildings made from brick and concrete, nestled among prairie grass and cut banks similar to the terrain of Gore Hill. After exploring for a while and wondering why I was in this place, questioning the dreams purpose, it immediately faded, but now I have a new flying dream to hold on to because 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, Given to Fly by Pearl Jam, 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
