No Trespassing

What next.

I have this recurring dream of a mountain meadow. The meadow faces to the southwest. It is painted in late evening sunlight, the white setting sun you see only after a fresh cold rain. The rainclouds are breaking up to the east. Cold fog follows the valleys toward the dark canyon below. The wet sedges are dazzling; millions of suns captured in raindrops. The meadow is surrounded by a forest of black Douglas fir.

I am not sure why it keeps coming back to me, or why I keep going back to it, but I felt as though I could have slept forever. Such adventure! Another night, another wilderness journey. I wake up with a beard and howl.

For years I tried to place this dream in reality. I almost found it in Montana. A couple of years ago, when looking to the east at the Beartooth Mountains in Paradise Valley, I saw a sideslope cast in that white evening light, with cobalt blue clouds slipping into the shadows behind the mountains. The trees were Douglas fir. I think I saw a sedge meadow between the trees. I was five miles away at the time. Then I moved and I was one thousand two hundred miles away. But when I slept, I was there.

Then one day, while walking in town, a photograph blew by my feet. I stooped to pick it up. I thought, I must be dreaming. It was the mountain meadow. The Douglas fir, the sparkling sedge, the white sunset, it was all there.

I brought the photograph to an art gallery in town to have it mounted. I imagined it on the wall in front of my desk, visible all day long, inviting me to jump in. I couldn't wait. A week later, when I came by to pick it up, the gallery owner remarked that he had seen the place before. I looked up and asked him where.

"You already told me."

"What did I say?"

"Somewhere."

"I don't believe you."

"Neither do I, but I was there."

He thanked me for the business, smiled, and said he would be back.

He was right. The next time I had a dream about that meadow, the art dealer was there, standing around with his hands in his pockets, staring at the sunset. Motionless. I was a little surprised but made no fuss. After all, the man just stood there. And was it not magnanimous of me to allow some stranger to enjoy the view? Why chase him away? And, sakes alive, the fellow was an art dealer; he could appreciate it. So I walked over a rise and kept out of sight.

Well, he has been there every time since. For a while, he just moved his head a little, looking at things, the sky, the trees, the meadow. He seemed enthralled, wide open, with a big smile. This cheered me. I was not alone. Others saw what I was seeing. But as the days turned to weeks, he started moving around, rummaging in the brush, poking at the ground, clambering across the rocks. This made me nervous. My sleep was shallow, the sort of sleep you have if you have coffee before bed. Then he started to make noise, rattling the branches, tipping things over, talking to himself. This startled me and I found myself waking up in the middle of the night.

Lately, it has gotten worse. He invited several of his friends and they gathered a pile of rocks and dammed up the creek that goes through the meadow. I woke up in a cold sweat. I think they were drinking. The next night they brought out some axes and cut down a swath of the Douglas fir. Then last night, in the distance, I heard the sound of engines.

My God, I am terrified to go to sleep.