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Photography by Leigh Thomas //
Top Left: Chasing the sunset in the Badlands; Bottom Left & Top Right: Driving up a mountain into a crest of clouds, Glacier National Park.
Leaving the Middle Miles Traveled & Roots Remembered By Leigh Thomas
I
’ve only ever lived in the middle, where the land is flat and the rising action long settled. In the middle of the story, the characters are well known, nestled comfortably into the pages, unrushed by the turning corners of a familiar plot. In my early chapters I have wandered little, if you consider the big picture, which is too big to fit inside the frame. But in the middle is where I find my roots: a town with one stoplight and well-lit porches, an island of antique shops and grocery store recognition floating amid a sea of corn stalks and country roads. We grew up at a breezeless pace, staying out late to lay on blankets spread over summer grass, draped beneath a small town sky stretched wide by stars. When I moved to the city, it wasn’t so big, but big enough.
I found new footing, reinvented my present self with the future in mind, still keeping the comfort of the middle with me. In college, we joked about building a Utopia: you should come, we’ll all be there. That way we could stay together, a surrogate second family disguised as friends. Only in a different city–just transplanted. Ironically, a miniature Utopia accidentally formed, tucking some of us inside. Here, we greeted the real world, peeked out from behind careful blinds. Gradually, we ventured out. Gave our grown up selves a name. Dreamed about some things. And some years later, when a blurry dream came into focus, my husband and I, we said good good-byes, felt it all, packed up our things and decided to turn a page, to leave the middle.
And we drove west: across familiar landscapes and further, onto wider skies and blushing pink horizons, alongside rock walls hugging the road, hillsides climbing and clashing into mountains, stormy mornings stretching over badlands, stopping to admire the whimsy of nature on display in golden rocks and sulfur springs, trespassing through the homes of up-close wildlife, and each night, camping in a tent with a patient pup, packing up to do it again, back to open roads, through sideline forests, everything tinted green, driving up a mountain into the gathering fog from clouds resting atop its crest. Then, driving back down the mountain, around the park, across highways and pressing onward, getting close, closer, over the river and through these trees to our new little mountain home. vol. 1 no. 7 | Herring & Hound | 3
On our west-venture, there were a few times where we felt like we’d been swallowed up by some kind of fairy tale, being enveloped in a mountaintop cloud or feeling small against a make-believe backdrop of painted canyons and mammoth mists of geysers screaming at the top of their blue lungs. I stared at a huge bison just a few feet in front of me, chilling in his zen place. I hiked a trail to a hidden lake named after me. We did all of this. But what I didn’t do is stop remembering the people we were driving away from, the reason why the middle became such a good spot to be in the first place.
Photography by Leigh Thomas // Golden Blooms at Grand Teton National Park.
My days in the middle were numbered. The pages of familiar stories were being turned, even as words scurried and collected in the corners, hoping to become one more sentence. I realized: these are borrowed
amid a sea of corn stalks and country roads. We grew up at a breezeless pace, staying out late to lay on blankets spread over summer grass, draped beneath a small town sky stretched wide by stars. When I moved to the city, it wasn’t so big, but big enough. I found new footing, reinvented Before leaving home, we started stories. And I don’t feel quite my present self with the future in to miss the people right in front of ready to give them back. mind, still keeping the comfort of us. We received an unforgettable In one sense, of course, they are the middle with me. And some and heart-welling sendoff, and felt mine because I lived them. And years later, when a blurry dream incredibly grateful for having these for these endless, numbered days came into focus, my husband and particular well-known characters I’m grateful. But anything past I, we said good good-byes, felt it in our story. the middle–the untouched pages all, packed up our things and deOn my last day at work, I had in which familiar characters settle cided to turn a page, to leave the three bags of library books to into future resolve, becoming resil- middle. return. At first, I hadn’t unient–I haven’t read that far. And we drove west: across faderstood why it felt like such a I’ve only ever lived in the midmiliar landscapes and further, difficult thing to return these dle, where the land is flat and the onto wider skies and blushing pink piles of books I’d been hoarding. rising action long settled. In the I knew I could simply jot down middle of the story, the characters Heading West the titles I wanted to remember are well known, nestled comfortIndianapolis to Iowa State Park to look up again later, and that ably into the pages, unrushed by Iowa State Park to Corn Palace I clearly wouldn’t have enough the turning corners of a familiar Corn Palace to Badlands time to read them now anyway. plot. Badlands to Wall Drug So why didn’t I just return them? In my early chapters I have wanWall Drug to Grand Teton Why wait until the last possible dered little, if you consider the big Grand Teton to Yellowstone moment? More than once I had picture, which is too big to fit ineyed them, months and days side the frame. But in the middle is Yellowstone to Glacier National before, towering over my nightwhere I find my roots: a town with Glacier National Park to Wenatchee National Forest stand, noticing the book on top one stoplight and well-lit porches, displaying its name: Our Endless an island of antique shops and Wenatchee to Portland Numbered Days. grocery store recognition floating
“These are borrowed stories.
And I don’t feel quite ready to give them back.”
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horizons, alongside rock walls hugging the road, hillsides climbing and clashing into mountains, stormy mornings stretching over badlands, stopping to admire the whimsy of nature on display in golden rocks and sulfur springs, trespassing through the homes of up-close wildlife, and each night, camping in a tent with a patient pup, packing up to do it again, back to open roads, through sideline forests, everything tinted green, driving up a mountain into the gathering fog from clouds resting atop its crest. Then, driving back down the mountain, around the park, across highways and pressing onward, getting close, closer, over the river and through these trees to our mountain home. On our west-venture, there were a few times where we felt like we’d been swallowed up by some kind
of fairy tale, being enveloped in a mountaintop cloud or feeling small against a make-believe backdrop of painted canyons and mammoth mists of geysers screaming at the top of their blue lungs. I stared at a huge bison just a few feet in front of me, chilling in his zen place. I hiked a trail to a hidden lake named after me. I did all of this. But what I didn’t do is stop remembering the people we were driving away from, the reason why the middle became such a good spot to be in the first place. On my last day at work, I had three bags of library books to return. At first, I hadn’t understood why it felt like such a difficult thing to return these piles of books I’d been hoarding. I knew I could simply jot down the titles I wanted to look up again later, and that I clearly wouldn’t have enough
time to read them now anyway. So why didn’t I just return them? More than once I had eyed them, months and days before, towering over my nightstand, noticing the book on top displaying its name: Our Endless Numbered Days. My days in the middle were numbered. The pages of familiar stories were being turned, even as words scurried and collected in the corners, hoping to become one more sentence. I realized: these are borrowed stories. And I don’t feel quite ready to give them back. In one sense, they are mine because I lived them. And for these endless, numbered days I’m grateful. But anything past the middle–the untouched pages in which familiar characters settle into future resolve, becoming resilient–I haven’t read that far.
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