Years ago, a few months back into my recurrent relationship with Alex, I began to understand that something was not right. I was aware of Alex’s genetic tendency toward Alzheimer’s. His mother and one brother were both taken by the disease. But with unwavering faith, Alex was convinced that “his Lord” would protect him from such a path. “If I ever get sick, hon—I won’t. But don’t worry. If I do, I know how to disappear.”

For anyone who might want to disappear, the eighth curve on American Ridge offers noteworthy features for a vehicle to arc fleetingly above the compact canyon long enough for the driver to reflect. I regularly drove this road during the three years I spent in reclaimed wine country, perched a stone’s drop above the Clearwater River in a prefab home customized with adobe painted accent walls and a once-in-a-lifetime-tag moose rack above the propane stove. Recently I moved back up to town to focus on writing and await the arrival of my first grandbaby.

A life wrapped with writing and art flourishes when one’s mind is open to curiosity and wonder. I often harbor odd and at times disturbing notions that root in my head. Lately, as I make my occasional return to the house above the river to play gin rummy, get my fix of the feral riverside cats, and toss a ball for the loyal black lab appropriately named Shadow, I pay particular attention to the turns I must maneuver to arrive at that eighth curve in the road. It occurred to me a year or so ago that, should one wish to “end it all” but not make a big to-do about it—just kind of, you know, disappear—this could be a place to make that happen. Here the canyon emerges from what appears to be dense blackberry brambles, capable of camouflaging a crumpled car for quite some time. 

In the fall of my Clearwater Writers residency, this unbridled landscape displays shocking bursts of autumnal pigments. Some wonder if the cause is the lingering wildfire smoke and intense heat of the past summer. Whatever forces of photosynthesis it takes to create a cacophony of color, this season they warrant every conceivable accolade. 

On this most recent quest, destination being Reflections Inn where I intend to compose this contemplation, one of the first seasonal fogs hangs low and troubling over the land at the top of the ten-mile grade, adding a mysterious edge to my imaginings.

As I continue downward—with relief that the fog dissolves to uncover a world of color and prevent setting this expedition into startling reality—I confirm the number of turns, not including the first long entry that begins the descent where livestock graze beside the road. At the eighth curve I stop in the pullout where the angle of the bend could allow for a burst of acceleration and the correct thrust for momentous and irreversible action. 

Photos to support my speculation may be useful. A snapshot taken as I peer over the edge reveals dense, shoulder-high thistle that might impede lift-off for my overextended Outback at what would be the exit point, but the dark rock breakaway across the divide summons, and lack of evidence of a true bottom is promising. A flicker of the pull-back shot of Thelma and Louise comes to mind, arms shooting triumphantly skyward in their Ford Thunderbird as if having sprouted wings. But because this, too, is hyperbole, the return to my vehicle for continuation of my journey offers another perspective. 

What if. What if I had chosen to leave the road this day? 

Had I conceded, I would not have enjoyed spouting a few rounds of Billie Joe McAllister up on Choctaw Ridge as I cruised American Ridge. Or savored the pleasure of that knoll-top residence reminiscent of Tuscany, edged with this fall’s dazzling Lombardy poplar trees stabbing the sky. Or reaped the satisfaction of approaching the river pegged with fly fishing addicts who are fulfilled whether steelhead are biting or not. 

And then, then the ninety-minute drive to this inn, every inch of which borders the Clearwater River, permeated and bleeding with such abundant leaf color that I feel my brain might burst. Again and again this river valley alarms me with visions of reignited wildfire, only to expose another explosion of hardwood leaves displaying their exuberance.

Easing toward the confluence of the Selway, Lochsa, and Clearwater rivers, I notice a drizzled dapple of sunlight striking a hawthorn in shades of carmen so profuse it feels like a punch to my stomach. My belly actually aches for an instant and I realize that the pigments I now name represent a smorgasbord of spices: turmeric, saffron, mace, pepper, clove, chilis. No wonder I feel these colors in my gut.

Had I taken that plunge, I would not now be settled in at this writing retreat watching the inn’s orange cat, Rico, curled up in the sun on a towel I placed for him on the deck chair outside my room. Or have retrieved this memory of Alex, whose cabin (the original Selway Trading Post) fourteen miles further along this scenic byway provided a dependable haven for my daughter and me for nearly twenty years, before the calamity of dementia removed him both physically and mentally away from us and this land that he loved. Alex’s passage into that complex disappearance, I am certain, is the reason my mind swerved to the possibilities presented by those eight easy curves.

One day when Alex wandered off down beside the river, I had a momentary fear that he had done just that. Disappeared. I imagined the act of lowering himself on his bony back into the cold water from the rough-poured canoe ramp where he etched his mother’s name in the concrete, now grown green with moss. I pictured his arms held stubbornly at his sides, ball cap swirling off his shaved head, vacant eyes and fixed smile, feet instinctively posed properly down river to kick away from rocks. 

Or this: Alex drove his vintage VW Rabbit eighteen miles to the end of Selway Road, on past the possible temptation of Selway Falls, and wandered into the wilderness where the occasional outfitter would be none the wiser. Perhaps the dropping night temperatures, resident black bear or cougar, possibly wolves, would help him on the way to never coming back. A natural cycle that Alex would welcome.

That did not happen, though it might have been the finest option. Alex’s lingering years, as his mind continues its slow vanishing act, are spent in a facility near his winter home in Puerto Vallarta. I imagine him standing at the shore’s edge—waters having merged from Lochsa and Selway to Clearwater to Snake to Columbia to the Pacific Ocean now passing over his feet—longing for a road with eight easy curves.

E.M. Sloan lives in Moscow, Idaho, where she focuses on writing and mixed media. She leads workshops with Blue Sage Writing out of Longmont, Colorado, and gives and receives prompts and word play through a blend of other virtual venues. Her historical nonfiction, When Songbirds Returned to Paris (Fawkes Press, 2016), is set in the European theatre of WWII. Her current work is a collection of essays and stories that might be true, as well as an upcoming revived and revised anthology on breastfeeding titled The Dairy Bar is Always Open. She has essays in Idaho Magazine, and drawings published in a number of literary journals over the years. You can follow her author page (E.M. Sloan) at: facebook.com/lizziebzArt.