Jill Christman on "Bathing"from Phantom Canyon
You know how you remember where you were, who you were with, and what you were doing when you listened to such-and-such a song, maybe for the first time? Like Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” when no doubt you should not have been there, and certainly not with that crowd, under those conditions, in a smoky basement apartment with black lights on Oglethorpe Avenue in Savannah? Right. You do.
This is how it is for me with the first essay I ever heard from what has become Phantom Canyon—“Bathing.”
The Newest from Migrations at 9600 Feet, my year long series on environmental issues and natural wonders at Beacon, a platform for reader-supported journalism.
from Breviaries of the Ghost
This was supposed to be about the dying Western aspen and the long litany of their probable ailments: drought, SAD, leaf rollers, heart rot. And I was going to stand here, the whole time, with a bundle of cut saplings in my forlorn arms in this little forty acre mountain microcosm alongside Phantom Canyon, a winding road where once the Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad carried gold the color of frost out of Victor and Cripple Creek mines.
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