Thirty-one Days to the Wormhole (from Janet)

Information about the Wayward Wormhole Intensive Writing Workshop

There’s a stillness atop Sant Bartomeu hill that settles my bones and calms my brain. At 998 meters above sea level, I lean against a centuries-old stone wall, part of the Castell de Llaés, and look across the fields below. Thirty-nine km to the right is a second hill of 1025 meters, where I can see remains of the castle of Besora as it sits alone with its past. In the other direction, at 961 meters, sits the medieval remains of Castell de Milany. With the slightest effort, I lower a cellophane sheet over the scene and add people in tunics walking with horses wearing baroque saddles. A second overlay adds dusk and wispy tendrils of cloud to the picture. Torches flare along the castle walls to both sides of me, and the glow of a central fire, ready to send messages across the gap between them as night descends. -Janet K. Smith

From Janet: This year’s Wormhole started a little early for me with a three-day conference in Surrey, BC where I touched base with Don Maass, spent some well-deserved face time with Cat Rambo, and met the effervescent Premee Mohamad along with several regular and new SIWC attendees. Then my husband Geoff picked me up at the hotel and we headed for the border. So far, so familiar to this West Coaster.

That was Sunday. Now it’s Monday and we’re in Washington state. It’s still a rain forest and I recognize most of the flora until we crossed the Snoqualmie Pass—then things changed a lot and slammed home the fact that we’re heading into the unknown; a new Wormhole full of students and instructors, a new environment full of unfamiliar flora along with both cute fauna and aggressive fauna. It’s exciting. Then the phone rang—I’d left my retainer in a BC hotel—but we’re across the border and not going back. The fun of travel.

Monday begins in Baker City, Oregon with -1 degree and frost. This is not what I’m used to. Within hours, we’re driving through Idaho. The hills are rolling and covered in a fine pale-yellow grass that softens them and is pleasing to the eye. I do my best to capture the feeling and look of this empty, mellow country which goes on and on. There are so many references to the Oregon Trail, and it’s easy (and terrifying) to imagine settlers crossing these lands in wagons with livestock in tow. It makes me think about the dynamics that put them in this place without considering the impact on the locals—human and animals.

By the end of the day we’re in Nevada and the landscape has changed to one that makes the rolling hills have taken on an edgier look with sharper edges and sage brush that gives it a five-o’clock shadow. I’m still thinking about the wagons making their way through this rough terraform, and when we come to a famous river crossing, the courage and focus required to find a home in this new world takes on a deeper meaning for having seen the environment firsthand. The feeling of being a stranger in an alien land is strong.

As Nevada gives way to Arizona, the land changes again. This time, huge, rounded boulders lie scattered about the terrain. Most are stacked three and four boulders high, as if giants had placed them during a game designed to balance the smooth stone in artistically lethal ways. There are story ideas strewn between the rock and cacti.

Thursday dawns with the bluest of skies. There’s one more shortish day of driving, one more hotel room, and we’re at The Painted Pony. My mind is full of meal planning, which means grocery shopping at an oversized level, the possibility of new friends and talking books, stories, and publishing. I love this moment, before anything needs troubleshooting, before looking for something forgotten or misplaced. Right now, the Wayward Wormhole is perfect.

The five-hour drive on Friday seems twice as long as the eight-hour drive the past Monday. Then we’re at the entrance to the long driveway. We bounce along the dirt road and up to the main house in front of us. The guest house is off to the left, and the bungalow is to the right. Every wall is smooth stucco supported by massive wooden beams. The doors are tall with full-length windows that brighten each room. The Painted Pony Resort slaps.

At 7:30 pm the sun had left the sky, leaving behind a breathtaking expanse of stars on both sides of the Milky Way. It’s quiet here. The hot tub is not too warm, and as my muscles loosen from the water and peace, I’m rewarded with the zing of a shooting star. And yes, the scorpions glow.