Free Waiting for Autumn by Scott Blum Page A

preconceived thoughts about what you’ll discover. Vision quests can be one of the most powerful experiences of a spiritual journey, and there’s no point in going unless you are completely present.”
    “Okay.”
    “It seems like your heart is now much more open than it has been. When we first met, you were closed up like a clamshell, and nothing could get in. Do you understand?”
    I did feel a lot more open than before, and I never wanted to be closed off from the world again. “I think so,” I finally said aloud.
    “I think you should go,” he said after a long pause. “How are you going to get there? Isn’t your car dead?”
    I had been so caught up in the dream that I’d forgotten about the practical. “Oh yeah. A car.”
    “I think Martika has an extra one she lets people from the constellation group use on occasion. Why don’t you see if you can borrow it.”
    “That’s a good idea.”
    “Good luck, Scott. I hope you find what you’re looking for. You are at a very special place in your journey.”
    “Thank you, Robert. I’ll let you know what I find.”
    “I’m counting on it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I left Ashland early Friday morning and excitedly scaled the Siskiyous in Martika’s spare car, which thankfully handled the ascent with much more grace than my old Volvo had. As I neared the California border, the optimistic hues of the Oregonian evergreens were replaced with the muted tones of death and dying, as if Mother Nature drew an imaginary line to divide the greens from golds.
    When I crossed the border, it felt as if my spirit, my life force, began to seep out the back of my neck, as if it were attached to a string and secured to the Oregon side. The longer I continued to drive away from that imaginary line, the more I felt empty inside, until nearly all the sharpness had dulled from every one of my senses. Everything smelled and tasted like dust. Even sipping from the bottle of springwater I’d brought for the drive tasted dusty. The feeling in my fingertips became numb, and all of a sudden it felt like I was wearing knitted gloves. The sound of the car’s wheels on the pavement was far in the distance, as if my hearing were muffled by imaginary cotton balls. And nearly all the brightest hues outside had faded from my vision, and everything I could see was tinted with warm sepia tones, as though I were looking at an old-fashioned photograph.
    Luckily my muscle memory seemed to take over, and I began driving on autopilot, without my brain and hands needing to communicate any longer. At first I started to panic, but I began to breathe deeply and even caught myself closing my eyes. I was lucid enough to realize that even driving on autopilot required my eyelids to stay open, which took a remarkable amount of will to maintain. Once, after catching myself dozing off, I shook myself awake, and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the majestic Mount Shasta. It appeared to glow with a bright white halo, which contrasted with the muted tones surrounding it. I’d always felt a connection with Mount Shasta when I was growing up, and although I had no plans to reach the summit that day, I made a mental note to revisit the mountain as soon as I could.
    The closer I got to Yreka, the more I began to get used to my deadened sensory state. And other than one last scare when I headed straight for the guardrail on the steep mountain pass, I was much more coherent during the remaining trip.
    When I arrived in Yreka, I was surprised by how empty it seemed. It had always been a small town, but now it appeared nearly deserted. There were no cars on the streets, no birds in the sky, and no pedestrians on the sidewalks. Perhaps my dulled senses were playing tricks on me, but it felt like even the breeze had decided to abandon the old mining town and leave the stillness of the air to imprison all that remained.
    After parking in a mini-mart lot, I retraced my path back to the cement island that had