We stopped for gas in Mt. Shasta City. The massive mountain loomed over the modest town. Across the street two California Highway Patrol SUVs had pulled over a late 90s model Chevrolet van. I pumped gas and watched a patrolman handcuff a white man, probably late 60s. Two other patrolmen searched the van. The man glared at me over the flashing lights as if trying to instill a sense of fear, but what he couldn’t have known was I was firmly cemented in a midlife crisis uniquely my own and viewed him as little more than a passing attraction. Inside our car, my daughter, not yet two, made faces in the mirror above her car seat. My wife thumbed through a local travel magazine. Eventually they loaded the man in the back and drove away. I felt compelled to walk over and look inside the van, but the pump clicked, and I got back in the car. We drove up Mt. Shasta stopping briefly at Bunny Flat Trailhead. Wildflowers were in bloom and a trail led to a forest of red firs with the mountain’s volcanic peak beyond. Above tree line we stopped again at a vista point where unwashed road trippers had made a temporary van encampment. They’d written Venmo @s on their windows asking for donations to fund their endless tour. The young women, dressed in tattered jeans and bikini tops, with flowers in their dreads, stirred something in me between lust and longing, but the feeling felt so far away it took me several minutes to realize what had caused it. The road ended at the parking lot for the Old Ski Bowl Trailhead. Before the trail, elaborate rock labyrinths spiraled out to expansive views of the Cascade Mountains which rolled north in a haze of blue. A gypsy sat behind a table selling crystals, and my wife and daughter wandered over to browse. We’d heard about Mt. Shasta’s reputation as a spiritual vortex, and while I am not normally one for such hokum, I could not deny the emotion that overtook me in that place. People walked the labyrinths slowly to the center and stared in meditative states at the mountain. A shirtless man walked back and forth gathering rocks then adding them to cairns. When he decided he’d done that enough he wandered over to a rock underneath a Whitebark Pine to meditate before starting the process over again. Something about the confidence he displayed in this endeavor angered me. Though rooted in the anger was also a sort of envy. My daughter sprinted over, nearly tripping a dozen times, holding up a crystal. My wife followed with a beaming smile. I didn’t care about the crystal but acted like it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. Walking back to the car, I reached for my wife’s hand. Our daughter ran up giggling, took each of our hands in hers and we lifted her off the ground. Back down in Mt. Shasta City I pulled to a stop behind the man’s van and stepped out before my wife could object. I walked around the van. There wasn’t much to see except general neglect. The plates were Washington State. We’d promised to see the Pacific Northwest before moving out of California. I cupped my hands against the glare and peered through the driver’s side window. On the passenger seat was a Rand McNally Road Atlas from 1993. A photo cube spun from the mirror. The first was a photo of the man and his wife. The second, a faded photo of the man and his wife and a daughter, probably 5 or 6. And a third of the man with his daughter as an adult. When I returned to the car my wife looked at me with curiosity but said nothing. I veered onto the interstate headed south. A sign alerted truckers of a 6% grade, but below us the interstate was empty. As the speedometer cleared 90 my anxiety started to melt away. I glanced at the rear view and could see my daughter in her mirror. She looked back with a sly grin, a wild excitement in her eyes. It was like she possessed a preternatural understanding of the utter ridiculousness of my worries and concerns. Passing 110 I felt the soft weight of my wife’s hand upon my knee. I lifted my foot off the gas pedal and allowed the car to return to a normal speed.

***

Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His books JADED and QUASI are available from Main Street Rag/Mint Hill Books and Anxiety Press, respectively. His newest short story collection ROLLING ON THE BOTTOM will be released on January 14th, 2025 from Cowboy Jamboree Press. His fiction and essays have appeared in Wigleaf, Pembroke Magazine, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gargoyle and New World Writing. Check him out on his website: wilsonkoewing.com or on X @jadedwriter. He lives and writes in Marin County, California.