Salt, Ink & Soul — Field Journal Series, Part III
It was as if I’d never started. All my momentum gone — vanished like breath on glass. The old voice returned, whispering reasons to stay still.
Why go? It asked. You can see everything on a screen.
Going outside is what made you sick.
Your car is too big. The police will stop you.
Each thought a stone in my gut, each hesitation dressed as reason.
Still, I drove — slow, deliberate, a man testing the edge of his own promise. The sun climbed high over Albuquerque as if to dare me. I turned off Montaño and followed the signs toward Pueblo Montaño Picnic Area, a place recommended by a co-worker. At first, it seemed I was never meant to find it, but I did, somehow.
At the entrance, the first thing I saw was the carvings — towering guardians hewn from fallen trees. Birds poised mid-flight, turtles climbing, coyotes howling into the stillness. Their faces caught the morning light, wood polished by wind and time.
For a moment, I thought about turning around. The same quiet panic pressed behind my ribs: You’ve seen enough. You can take a photo from the car. No one will know the difference.
But something in the carvings — maybe the permanence of their stillness — silenced the argument. I stepped out.
The path curved through low brush and cottonwoods, beginning to yellow with the season. The air was sharp with the scent of sage and sun-warmed dust. My body, still cautious from its revolt, protested at first — a cough, an ache, a slow complaint in the knees. But the further I walked, the more those protests dissolved into breath.
At a small bench near a patch of golden brush, I stopped. The wood was warm. The wind moved like a whisper that had nothing to prove. From where I sat, I could see the Rio Grande glinting between the trees — quiet, relentless, alive.
And for the first time in days, I didn’t feel like a man recovering. I felt like one returning.
Progress may not come in the form of long drives or grand destinations. Maybe it’s just the act of standing outside yourself long enough to see where you are.
The world isn’t waiting to be conquered — it’s waiting to be witnessed.
As I turned back toward the car, the carvings seemed different. The bird looked less like it was guarding the trail and more like it was blessing the departure. The coyotes, once frozen in howls, now looked like they were calling me forward.
Maybe that’s what growth really looks like — not grand adventures, but small acts of motion.
What do you think… should I keep going?
Kyle J. Hayes
kylehayesblog.com
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Salt,Ink, & Soul 