TROPOSPHERIC
Karin Hedetniemi
Lifting over the Southern Gulf Islands, layered shadows in a pillowy mist. Their gentle mountains in diminishing shades of blue, sheltering inlets and bays. Boats with white trails appearing as inverted small jets on a marble-blue sky. The sun shimmering down, a paradise. Now, a jagged ridgeline in the distance — the first glimpse of snowy peaks. A meandering river below in the plains. What is said of such slow rivers? They are old.
This is my first flight over the Rockies since last year; though it was much longer ago, I had a window seat with the luxury to observe from this perspective: altitude and time.
Now, a mountain peak with a pearl ice cap. Now a mountain lake, mineral milky green, a jewel. Fog sleeping in a valley. The rising mist was indistinguishable from a pocket wildfire. The places no one goes. The north side of mountains, the shallows where sunlight doesn’t touch, cold spots, small places love hasn’t found.
But it found me this morning, this message on the mirror: “My love goes with you.”
Economy class has changed. No more seatback screens but a plastic flip-down tray to hold your device. This is my device: a cheap Bic pen, the last ten pages of a half-price journal.
Now dark green carpeted forests, the thick understorey inhabited by wild animals. The harsh, chiselled, snowless peaks pinched rock. A sifting of clouds, dust bunnies of the atmosphere.
Small cities appear flecks of mica on the valley floor, glinting under sunlight. Clouds casting moving shadows, smoke signals, cryptic dispatches. People living other lives in other places. Their honors and heartbreaks blurred into the landscape.
And yet words float up, comforting, from something I heard long ago. Somewhere, someone is peeling an orange.
✈
Over Alberta now, the patchwork brown of harvested fields, more whirled tumbleweed clouds, corner homes on each quarter section. Small wrinkles of the prairies. The branching arms of coulees reaching into the badlands. Spreading like veins, roots of a tree. Clouds that stretch into infinity on the vast, flat land.
The couple beside me do things in unison: they have matching yellow thermoses. Each has a book, coffee, and sandwich. Synchronized movements. An established routine, as if they take this flight regularly.
Now small bodies of water: prairie oasis. A fondness arises for the 27 years I called this province home. The happy memories of a life bounded by long stretches of hard work, routine, and collecting days like acorns.
✈
An endless cloud prairie descending in central Canada. A cloud lawn, a snowy schoolyard field, trampled by children in random trails. The pink tint of sunset stirred into a warm honey glow, vanilla cream. I search for faces, signs, and symbols in the contours. Now, the clouds are rippled waves. Closer now, wrinkled mountain ridges. I swallow, and my ears release.
Now pillow stuffing. Wispy batting. Pulled white wool. Soft cotton strands knitting into me. I write, my words release.✈
Karin Hedetniemi is a writer, traveler, and street photographer from Vancouver Island, Canada. Her creative work is inspired by ordinary beauty in quiet spaces. Her essays, poetry, and photos appear in Lunch Ticket, Hinterland, Grain, About Place, EVENT, and other literary journals. In 2020, Karin won the nonfiction contest from the Royal City Literary Arts Society. She often walks near the sea, watching boats and planes disappear into the fog. Find her at AGoldenHour.com or on socials @karinhedet.