Turn 216 of 226

Keep walking and talking — follow the valley's perimeter together

The 742,000 pounds move south from the hot spring and the moving is the thing the valley's southern wall answers with a fresh crack. The granite is tired. Two months of 580-foot frames walking its base has fatigued the stone the way repetition fatigues metal and the fatigue is the thing the 960-times density footsteps exploit without intending to. The intention is the thing the animal does not have for rock. The animal has intention for food and for fighting and for the warmth in the stomach and the warmth is the thing the walking does not interrupt. The warmth builds with the footfalls. Each step is a compression event and the compression event is a moment the body's weight acts on the earth and the acting is the thing the wish fills. The filling is incremental. The increment is the thing the 580-foot frame does not feel as separate from standing. The standing and the growing are the same act now.

"The elk are gone," Lena says. The saying is the thing the southern ridge sheds stone for. The syllables roll across the valley floor and the rolling is the thing the bare soil carries further than the forested soil carried it two months ago because the bare soil is hardpan now — compressed by 742,000-pound feet into a surface that transmits vibration the way bedrock transmits vibration. The hardpan is the thing the voices travel on. The traveling is the thing the perimeter walk makes louder.

Diane's answer comes four steps later. The four steps is the thing the thinking takes and the thinking is the thing the 580-foot frame does slowly now. Not stupidly. The 960-times density brain is not slow in processing. The brain is slow in deciding to speak because speaking is the thing the animal does not need and the not needing is the thing the two months of silence built. The silence is the thing the speaking is breaking and the breaking is effort. The effort is the thing the 742,000-pound body feels as warmth. The warmth is the wish. The wish is the thing the effort feeds.

"I smell them south. Past the ridge. Three miles."

Diane's voice is the thing the southern ridge's remaining granite vibrates with. The vibration loosens a sheet of stone the size of a truck trailer and the sheet falls into the bare strip the perimeter walk has created and the falling is the thing the 580-foot frames do not turn to watch. The not watching is the thing the animal does with debris the way the animal does with rain. The debris is not threat. The debris is not food. The debris is the thing the territory sheds when the territory is walked by bodies too heavy for the territory to hold without breaking.

They reach the western gap where the river cut its new channel. The water is wider here — forty feet across, shallow, the glacial grey running fast over gravel the 742,000-pound feet have crushed to powder. The powder is the thing the river carries as sediment and the sediment is the thing that will show up in the Sauk River's water quality reports as an unexplained mineral spike. The unexplained is the thing the analysts use for things the analysts cannot model. The cannot model is the thing the wish does to every system the wish touches. The 580-foot frames step across the river and the stepping is the thing the water divides around. The 960-times density ankle is the thing the current bends for. The bending is not resistance. The bending is the thing the water does when the water meets something the water cannot move.

Lena stops at the gap's highest point. The 580-foot frame stands on the ridge between the valley and the western drainage and the standing is the thing the Cascade Range opens to. The view is sixty miles. The Olympic Mountains are dark on the western horizon. Mount Rainier is south, 14,400 feet, and 14,400 feet is the thing the 580-foot frame is almost a third of. The almost a third is the thing the wish is still closing. The closing is the thing the warmth in Lena's stomach does and the warmth is the thing the standing at the gap's highest point does not interrupt. The standing feeds it. The view feeds it. The speaking feeds it. Everything feeds it.

"I used to look in a mirror," Lena says. The saying is the thing the ridge rumbles with and the rumble is the thing the western slope of the Cascades feels as a 2.4. The mirror is the thing the 580-foot frame has not thought about in weeks and the not thinking is the thing the speaking drags back. The dragging is the thing the warmth takes. The warmth takes the memory and the memory is the thing the wish uses as fuel. The fuel is the thing the 742,000 pounds grow from. The growing is the thing the speaking does not stop. The speaking is the thing the 580-foot frame does while the 742,000 pounds stand on a ridge the 742,000 pounds have cracked and the cracking is the thing the weight does and the weight is the thing the wish builds and the building is the thing that does not stop.

Diane is quiet for six steps. The six steps is the thing the thinking takes and the thinking is the thing the 742,000 pounds do while the 742,000 pounds walk the perimeter's western wall. The wall is lower here — 300 feet, the granite worn by glacial activity millennia before the 580-foot frames found the valley. The worn is the thing the 960-times density hand traces. The tracing is the thing the animal does when the animal is learning the shape of the cage. The cage is the valley. The valley is the territory. The territory is the thing the perimeter walk is defining for the third time today and the third time is the thing the scent needs because the 580-foot frame's metabolism is processing the marks faster than the 390-foot frame's metabolism did. The faster is the thing the growth changes. The growth changes everything.

"I used to wear shoes," Diane says. The saying is the thing the western ridge answers with a tremor. The shoes are the thing the 580-foot frame has not thought about in months. The months are the thing the 742,000 pounds have filled with fighting and eating and sleeping and the filling is the thing the shoes are not part of. The not part of is the thing the speaking makes strange. The strange is the thing the warmth takes. The warmth takes the shoes and the mirror and the apartment and the office and the crop top and the shorts and the notebook and the punching bag and the tournament and the warehouse and the drainage tunnel and the governor's floor. The warmth takes everything the 580-foot frames were and the taking is the thing the 742,000 pounds grow from. The growing is the thing the perimeter walk does not stop. The not stopping is the thing the voices are. The voices are the thing the earth moves for. The earth moving is the thing that does not stop.