Earlier in my life I would have described my relationship with the sun as being fairly neutral; so neutral, in fact, that I likely would have raised an eyebrow at the overall idea of a relationship with sun- with the very premise of the question. That’s changed a great deal since I crashed the truck and have taken to exploring the Wayside on my bike. Since then, I have developed a keen awareness of my relationship with the sun and I can say, without hesitation, that it is oppositional.
Sunshine finds its way in through my clothes as easily as rain and, unlike rain, I don’t notice until it’s too late- until I’ve settled into my sleeping bag and the red-raw skin makes itself known. Sunshine strikes me in the eyes at odd times, blazing down from the sky predictably, sure, but bouncing off innocuous metal surfaces, too, always at inopportune moments.
And the heat.
There are ways of staying warm on the bike. Few to keep cool when it matters. I can wait out the rain and the snow but the heat, when it arrives, is unending. Nighttime hardly lingers on those occasions that I’m passing through the south in early autumn. The world never cools. The sun only blinks its eye.
I am skeptical of every destination but more skeptical of ‘The Sky Callus’ than I probably ought to be.
‘Vermont makes a big deal out of ‘The Sky Callus,’ hinting, but never claiming outright, that it somehow exists as a result of their dedication to the environment. This author does not debate the climate crisis nor does he tend to downplay the importance of living a green lifestyle, but it should be clear to anyone with any sense that a mottled atmosphere is a scarred one. Whatever comfort there is to be had under ‘The Sky Callus’ is representative of the calm before the storm, not the cloud’s silver lining.’
I don’t understand the mottling effect of ‘The Sky Callus’ any more than I understood the concept of a hole in the ozone layer. How does atmosphere form gaps? How does it bunch up in odd places? I assume there will be something, be it signage or a visitor’s center, at ‘The Sky Callus’ that might explain the science of it all in layman’s terms but am greeted, instead, with what may as well be a circus.
The tackiest form of tourism has taken root at ‘The Sky Callus.’ Sweaty men sell eight-dollar lemonade from garish trailers. Haphazard family businesses hawk fried goods. Every booth seems to be playing a variation of the same loud rock music- all of it beachy and upbeat and insistent.
The area beneath ‘The Sky Callus’ is clear, at least. Some authority has made it so that the vendors can’t exist on the field itself so they hover just on the outskirts, close enough that they can pass food over the fence. Visitors huddle in the center of the field where the racket is the least intrusive. They complain about the noise and sip their eight-dollar lemonades. Hector and I claim a spot halfway between the two factions, where we won’t be immediately solicited and where Hector’s strange body won’t excite the kids, or frighten them.
And, despite everything, we find peace. ‘The Sky Callus’ is such that it’s impossible to be sunburned underneath it. The light that trickles through is gentle and warming and the crowd wanes in the late afternoon when the air takes on a chill undercurrent that I don’t mind at all. At some point, I fall asleep.
When I wake, I find the moon above us, its own light made bleary and accusing by ‘The Callus.’ I have always felt guilty upon waking from stolen naps, though, so maybe I’m projecting. I haven’t begun to consider my relationship with the moon.
-traveler
