The volcanoes are alive / Part Two Joe Allen
The place where Heaven meets Hell Our lone hayseed indulges a spell of promiscuous anthropomorphism on the path from Mt. Hood to Portland, looking for faces in the clouds
T
he Fourth of July brought clear skies. A full moon had gleamed overhead since midnight – trailed by Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars in an eastward arc – allowing me to ascend some 5,000ft of snow and talus without ever turning on my headlamp.
12 ColdType | Mid-July 2020 | www.coldtype.net
The meaning of the mountain, I told myself faithfully, lies somewhere up ahead. There must be some connection between her world and ours. Mt. Hood was cold and beautiful that morning, like an aloof lover who’s managed to capture some fool’s heart. Like all strato-
volcanoes, her jagged peak cast a symmetrical triangle that stretched out across a sea of clouds lit pink by the sunrise. As with any perfect visage, this sharp Platonic form is an optical illusion, created by the vanishing point of a lumpy, elongated shadow that extends for miles. Unlike her
