A Great Escape: Short Stories for Travelers

By Ken Wasil

LAY BACK . . . CURL UP . . . LET GO . . . AND ESCAPE TO ANOTHER WORLD.

 

You'll read love stories and travel vignettes from Arizona, France, Indonesia, North Macedonia, the Arctic Circle and around the world. Encounter travelers who face social issues in Florida, Guatemala, New Jersey and Texas.

 

Realize the challenges modern life and technology will bring to us all in Salem, Massachusetts and our own backyards, .

 

And finally go on adventures to Egypt, the Himalayan Mountains, and the Amazonian jungles in three enticing novelettes.

 

This is only a preview of the adventures awaiting you in the twenty-four stories in A Great Escape. They will entertain you and get your heart racing. However, read them with care . . . take them in small dose . . . for they may make you forget your day to day life, quit your job, and travel the world.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Wasil
• Release date: Oct 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201899813

Book preview

Part One

LOVE IN THE DESERT

I spent a week in Mochas and San Blas Mexico and then returned to Tucson, Arizona.  I had another two weeks of vacation, so I decided to hike into the mountains and camp out.  I bought a backpack, a mess kit, a portable stove, and stocked up on food. 

The weather was fine in December, chilly in the mornings, hot during the mid-afternoons.  I left the city early, taking a local bus towards the mountains.  It was clear when the sun came up and cast a dark pink glow over the mottled grey clouds near the eastern horizon.  Its yellow luminescense warmed the early morning air. 

I begin climbing a trail.  It’s better to stay on the footpaths in the desert to avoid the cactus which can be deadly.  The prickly pear, barbary fig, and saguaro can send you to the hospital.  Brushing against the loose jointed cylindropuntia (in the chollo family) will give you a spiked ball of needle that is as deadly as a mace. 

I quickly moved up the face of the barren mountains—from time to time gazing at the vast plain that stretched off towards the Mexican border. The mountains surrounding me were a dark purple and when the sun’s direct light reached their face, they turn a grey brown.

The hiking became difficult and slow as I neared the apex of the range.  I was hot and sweaty, so I removed my jacket and stopped to rest several times.  The water didn't seem to quench my thirst and I became winded and tired because I wasn't used to the strenuous exercise and heavy backpack. 

There were several false peaks and when I reached the last one, I was rewarded with a magnificent view of a valley with pine and oak punctuated with a stream glinting gold in the morning sunlight.  I decide to head towards the water and follow it upstream—for water is my life force. 

It doesn’t rain much in Arizona.  Now though, the unexpected had occurred; clouds moved in and I felt drops of moisture.  At first they are a pitter-pattering, then they become heavy rain.  I move away from the stream bed to avoid a possible flash flood and climb up the loose sandy slope of the V-shaped valley onto a plateau.  I extract my plastic tarp from my pack and hastily cover myself.  I spread the edges of it away from me to keep the water from pooling under it.  I lay down protected from the rain.  I close my eyes and drift into a pleasant reverie. 

I have always enjoyed the rain; the smell of the earth and the scented vegetation fill my nostrils and course through my brain.  The pitter-pattering becomes a pounding and the wind a roar as it rushes through the brush and trees.  The rhythm and the sound, like a symphony, fill me with peace and I fall asleep.

Soon the rain lets up.  I fold my tarp and move on.  I follow the thread of water that is now a turbid flow from the downpour.  I stoop to fill my canteen at a rivulet.  In the desert, one never knows when rain will turn a stream into a torrent or when a stream will dry up and disappear into the earth. 

I walk on enjoying the warm sun that emerges through the clouds.  I notice an overhang of dark rock halfway up the canyon incline that forms a sort of cave that offered protection from the weather.  This is unusual in nature; one can walk for miles and days through the wilderness without finding any fortification from the sun and the rain.  I decide to climb up and camp under the projection for the night.

It is about six feet deep and I can easily sit up under the ledge.  If it rains hard, it and the tarp will keep me dry.  The sun is low in the sky. Its red face radiates an eerie flush on the canyon and hillside as if I were transported to another world.

I sit with my legs crossed and meditate.  My breathe suffuses my body.  I feel a relaxing—a letting go of muscle, mind, worry, thought.  My conscious strives to escape my body and mind.  It descends to the floor of the canyon and then whips its length like a beam of light exploring and touching all in its path.  It girds boulders, trees, branches, leaves, cacti and then quickens inches above the flowing water.  It sees and knows all, comprehending the interrelatedness of rock, sand, trees, water, animals, and plant life.  At the same time, it explores the conundrums of my day-to-day living—seeking solutions and answers to challenges, that like tiny stones in a shoe, make life unpleasant. 

My consciousness watches a turkey vultures glide the wind currents far about the canyon floor with nary the movement of a wing (turkey vultures have a bad name, but their effortless and endless gliding are a point of mystery and beauty to me).  My consciousness merges with the avian life form and I become the vulture; we fly over the canyon scanning the steep slopes, our sharp vision searching for the slightest movement.  We glide along the undulating landscape and the center of the stream bed.  We beat our wings and ascend above the highest peaks.  My bird host and I gaze over the vast mountains and valleys which seem to exist on into infinity in the late afternoon golden light of the sun.

We circle higher and higher above the peaks.  My heart is touched by spectacular scenery in all directions.  Now we gaze along the crests of the mountains, now north over the plateau—I revel in the sparse vegetation and endless eroded landscape.

My host and I zoom in on movement 1000 feet below on an exposed cupola—perhaps an immature rabbit or rodent.  Alas, the bird decides to move on—for it has recently eaten its fill. We glide in a grand circle and view the mountains surging off into the distance like the spine of an ancient beast.

My consciousness returns to the rock overhang and my campsite.  I watch the sun descend and turn into a burning red ball that touches the horizon and slowly flickers out.  I lie down and welcome sleep. 

I dream of footsteps approaching and open my eyes.  I see a woman—yes, I must be dreaming or hallucinating.  She is slender with shoulder length dark hair and wearing a plaid flannel shirt, jeans and hiking boots.  I continue to watch her trekking along the hill.  She’s singing a familiar Beatle's song:

When I find myself in times of trouble,

Mother Mary comes to me,

Speaking words of wisdom,

Let it be.  Let it be.

I venture a greeting to this apparition, Well, hello, fancy meeting you here.

Hi, I was out for a hike and got caught in the rain . . . thought I’d follow this layer of granite, so if it started raining again, I could stay dry under it.

Come on in.  I’m just going to make tea, like some?

Now that’s a good idea.

Actually, I was sleeping and heard your footsteps and singing, and thought you were a dream.

Maybe I am.

I’m up here to spend the last part of my vacation—thought I'd just relax and enjoy nature close to the city. 

Where are you from?

I'm from Portland, Oregon. 

So what do you do in Portland?

Design software

Exciting, what kind?

I work as a consultant for businesses.  Managers and owners describe challenges and I write software that provides solutions.

I like that.  You're a sort of trouble shooter.

How about you?

Husband troubles.

Oh.

"I write, too.  Fiction.  If you’ve picked up a copy of Women in the Desert you may have seen a short piece of mine."

What’s your name?

Kate Gonzalez.

I'm Waverly Spirit. Nice meeting you.  In fact, I recently read several entries in that book while I was in Tucson, but not all of them.  The one that stayed with me was about a young divorced woman—the husband got custody of the daughter because the woman decided to move in with another woman.  She eventually kidnapped the daughter and absconded to Mexico.

That was my story.

I loved it—was it true?

Part of it.  There was a divorce and the father got custody of the child.  I didn't abscond to Mexico with my daughter, though.  My husband was a real bastard—spousal abuse.  I left him because of it.  I could show you the scars on my back and arms.

I’m sorry.

He spent a lot of money on a lawyer.  Tried to turn my best friend, who put me up while I was looking for a job and my own place, into my lover. The judge believed him and not me.  Thus, he got custody.  I fantasized about taking my daughter and escaping to Mexico, but of course, decided against it.  That’s why I’m up here today—to clear my head.

I empathize with you.

Trouble is we still see each other—usually when it’s my day to visit Carrie.  It always turns into a scene.  I get completely discomfitted.  Today I left her and ran off without a jacket and umbrella just to get away and out of the city.  And now it's dark and I think I’m lost.

Where did you park?

Some sort of a turnout off of a highway at a trail head.  Then I started walking and got turned around.

I noticed a turnout.  It’s easy to return to the path, just follow the stream bed for about a mile.  That’s the way I came up.  I took the bus from Tucson and then walked in.

And now it’s almost dark—I’ll never find my way out."

Well, you’re welcome to stay here.  I have a jacket I could lend you, plenty of food, and unless it pours and the wind picks up, there is protection from the rain.  Or I could walk back with you to that trail, but it's dark and then you’d have to trek out of the mountains at night.

No, I’d never find my car.  You won’t attack me will you?

No, I’ve never done that.  I’ll leave you alone.

You could sleep here or walk along this rock face and search for another campsite.

No, I’ll stay with you.  What about animals—are we going to be eaten by wolves?

No wolves up here, but lots of coyotes.  I’ve slept out close to the city—you hear their eerie calls at night and then sometimes the pads of their feet on the ground when they run near you.  I usually do something to scare them away like rattle my tent or make loud noises.  It could be worse up here, but I think a volley of rocks will keep them away.

I’ll take you up on that jacket. 

What I like about it out here is the quiet—no traffic or sounds of the city.  Just the wind and a few birds.

The desert’s an amazing place.  I love it.  I grew up in Illinois then moved to Arizona when I got married.

I could tell from your writing that you love the desert.

There’s not a lot of vegetation, but everything you look at is amplified: the soil and sand, the rocks and cacti.  And it’s so peaceful.  A mountain forest or tropical jungle are magnificent, but the desert has it’s own special beauty.  So how long are you going to stay up here?

I was planning on two weeks.  I’ll need to hike down for food, though.

How exciting.  You're on an adventure.  I'm an account in addition to being a writer.  I have my own company and help businesses keep their books current.  But Tucson is a small city and the economy is still recovering, so I don’t make a lot of money.

Katie, I’m glad I met you—glad for the company.

Likewise.

I’m going to lay down now and get some sleep.

Alright.

If you get cold, I’ll open up this sleeping bag into a blanket and share it with you.

I’d like that—it’s going to get chilly tonight . . . into the thirties—too cold for me.

Here’s that jacket.

Hey, thanks.

*  *  *

I wake and decide to build a fire.  Katie’s still sleeping.  The fire becomes bright and illuminates the overhang and immediate hillside but doesn’t belie our enclave because we’re shielded in a narrow canyon.  When the fire crackles, Katie wakes.

That fire is just what I need.  I’m going to move closer to it to stay warm.

So how about you, are you married?

Was.  My wife died last year.  I have two kids.  They’re scattered across the West Coast.

Is that why you make it your home?

Partly.  My daughter is a teacher and lives in Seattle with her family.  We see each other on the holidays.

And your other child?

My son and his family live in a small town near Sacramento.  How about you, have you got another beau yet?

No, after the divorce I’ve been sour on relationships; it doesn’t seem worth it.

You’ve had some hard luck.

Geeze, it’s getting cold.

Here, wrap this sleeping bag around you.

Then you’ll freeze.  You come over and sit next to me and we’ll share it.

Alright.

That's agreeable.

Now tell me about your wife.

We lean against the rock wall and stretch our feet out towards the fire.

I had my consulting business and she was a lawyer.

Impressive.

We had one of those unique relationships—we were friends, first and foremost.  And we often worked together.  We could talk about anything.  Rarely did we have an argument, never harsh words.

A dream come true.

It really was.

I'm feeling warm now.  This is satisfying.  You don’t mind if I rest my head on your shoulder, do you?  It will be a lot more comfortable.

Not at all . . . not at all.

That’s lovely.

Yes it is.

A VISIT FROM VAN GOUGH

I traveled by plane to London from the United States, then onto Paris by the train.  I headed towards the Montmartre District – the hills and surrounding areas where 19th and 20th century writers and artists lived and worked: Hemingway, Monet, Renoir, Degas, Picasso and, of course, Van Gough. 

I then checked into the Saint Pierre Hotel at the pied du Sacre Soeur, a prominent French Cathedral.  When I paid for my room, the attendant was terse – then quickly described the rules in French, The building will be locked promptly at midnight.  I asked for my five Euros change but the lady shrugged, so I assumed she was keeping it as a courtesy charge. 

I turned to my left and saw a winding narrow staircase leading up to the rooms.  The walls were covered with textured salmon colored wallpaper punctuated with vertical strips of white molding.  A dark wooden railing with black painted supports ascended the left wall.  I followed the multi-colored red carpet up the stairs to the second floor.  As I was climbing the staircase, I felt the spirit of Van Gough besides me.

I entered my small room that was painted in a subdued yellow.  The walls, ceiling, and floor were not square and looked as if they had come out of one of the impressionist’s paintings.  The space formed an L shape with the entry a little larger than the leg where the bed sat.

A large armoire with a full-length mirror on its front face stood across from the bed.  The white tile ceiling sagged and rippled and a white wainscot wrapped around the middle of the room about one meter from the floor.  The curtains were bright yellow with generous images of sunflowers in orange with green leaves scattered across the diaphanous surface. 

The floor was covered with a red brick patterned linoleum.  It sagged noticeably in the direction of the bed, so that all of the furniture including a small nightstand and the armoire were at an angle and seemed as if they would slide across the floor to join their companions.  I was happy to be in this space and happy to be in Paris again.  I wouldn’t trade my economical room for the most expensive one in Europe. 

The next morning I woke up rested and refreshed after a long night's sleep.  When I left, the clerk smiled and gave me my change.

SPRING

It was a day like no other.  One could appreciate it in contrast to the long cold winter it punctuated, the barren grey and brown woods, the gravel, tree branches, and debris strewn on the streets and lawns, and the hard look on people’s faces still wrapped in heavy coats and mufflers.  The previous day was cold, cloudy, windy with snow flurries throughout the morning and afternoon.  Rain was scheduled for the following two days, then a promise of warmer weather.  However, no one believed it.  Not after snow storms in mid-April.  One lady, when asked if we’d ever see spring said sardonically, It’s inevitable.

The day began with a disconsolate peek between curtains out a window and a reluctant hand slid between doorjamb and screen door to test the temperature. But miraculously, when Fred Wilcox read the thermometer on his front porch at 7:00 am, it declared a comfortable 49 degrees Fahrenheit.  Jane Sampson, a nurse at Massachusetts General Hospital, decided to leave her overcoat at home and wear a spring print dress with a peach colored sweater.  James Washington, a stockbroker on Wall Street, threw off his heavy garb, donned a bicycle helmet, and rode through central park to work. 

A sweetness permeated the air—a gentleness—a clear, healing, heavenly lightness was having its way with everything and everyone it touched.  People, who normally jostled each other on their way down 5th Avenue or in the crowds on 14th Street at Union Square, smiled at each other and stepped aside.  Hey sorry, man . . . what a day, huh!

At 11:00 am, the full force of the day on the population caught on—streets were jammed with cars and pedestrians, people paraded through Central Park looking for the first shoots of ice drops, crocus, daffodils and new growth on bushes and trees.  Women wore spring and summer colors, men had on shirt sleeves, joggers were out in shorts and tank tops.

A drivers who happened to tap the bumper of another car said, Sorry about that, my friend. 

Don’t worry, no harm done.

Here’s my number, give me a call.

No, I'll let it go, don't worry about it.

No, not about the accident, let's do lunch.

People weren’t the only ones affected—trees, bushes, grass, bulbs lying dormant and seemingly dead for six months were touched by the magical force of the day.  Perhaps it was a certain light or the combination of life giving forces that encourage the verdure to sprout and grow in a matter of hours.  What was a grey barren trunk and branches in the morning, was a flowering cherry tree in the afternoon.  Apple, Peach, Plum trees blossomed and sprouted greenery.  Hyacinths, tulips, forsythias, and anemones came into all their glory. 

Robins, starlings, and Canadian geese that had been braving the grey, brown fields for weeks, choking on last falls seeds and stubble, gobbled down fresh greens as fast as their beaks could swallow them.  Sparrows and starlings found fresh pools of water and dipped their breasts and fluttered their wings to splash water over their bodies for their first baths of spring.  They were joined by doves, thrush, and redwing black birds in joyfully calling in the season.

A police officer who stopped a motorist for speeding said, Now you know you were speeding don’t you, Miss?

Oh yes, officer, I’m late.  I took an extra fifteen minutes to take Fido for a walk; it was too nice a day to pass up.

It’s really a day, isn’t it?  You be careful now.  Have a good one.

Husbands forgave wives, and wives husbands.  Oh John, that was my mother’s vase you broke this morning, with a laugh.

I'm  truly sorry.

To be honest, I was so tired of looking at it that I was ready for a new one.

Surprise my love!  Here’s a new vase from Tiffany’s with fresh red roses to boot.

Roses, Oh I haven’t had a bouquet for so long.  You’re a darling.  Thank you.  She gave him a kiss; they embraced, and she took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

Bosses over looked workers faux pas, Sorry I’m late Mrs. Stark.

No problem, Benjamin.  I was enjoying the day so much that I was running late, too.  Now you go into the break room; they’re celebrating Jenny’s birthday.

In the House of Representative the recalcitrant speaker from Ohio who had defeated bill after bill with a slim majority, walked into the chamber and put his arm around the minority leader, What can we do to compromise on this vote on next year’s budget—and the university rider?  My daughter told me this morning she thought we should pass it to keep the cost of a university education down.  Otherwise, most of her friends will have to drop out of school because they can't afford their college tuition.  And besides, it’s such nice day, I was hoping to get home early and join my family for a walk on the national mall before dinner.

I could go along with that.  The university bill means more jobs and a better educated population.

The congressman from Kentucky seconds that.

And the one from Texas thirds it.

And in a government chamber halfway across the world, where hot sands met crystal turquoise seas, the United States Secretary of State sat with his counterpart.  It was a warmer climate where spring had already begun, yet the day was fine.  A sweet breeze flew off the Mediterranean Sea and brushed the orange, pineapple, and apricot trees wafting their scent throughout the barren hills, valleys, and cities.  And a strong current in the water brought nutrients to the surface that produced an abundance of fish that satisfied the fishermen. 

Upon the land and among the people there was a peacefulness—oh, I don’t know if it was the day per say . . . .   Now Ms. Secretary of State, I’ve been thinking . . . perhaps, we could halt that construction on the frontier and move forward on the lasting peace with our adversary this spring, It’s about time, isn’t it? 

If that’s what you want to do, Mr. Minister.

I talked to the Prime Minister this morning, in fact.  He said, 'Let's stop all this fuss.  Now is as good a time as any to complete that peace process.'

A CELEBRATION

Dawn was just commencing as we sped north on highway Twenty-Five towards Sante Fe, New Mexico.  The light was beginning to illuminate the peaks in the distance and transform the black desert into pale yellows, greens, violets, and browns complemented with sitar music on the CD player. 

Swami said, Tahu, let's pull over and take a break at the cafe up ahead.

It was a recently built diner with charcoal grey tiles framed with chrome trim.  When we walked inside, Redneck Side of Me by Jamey Johnson was playing on the jukebox.  Eight local Latino, Apache, and white ranchers were sitting on a row of chrome nagahide stools.  When Swami walked in wearing his bright orange kurta and dhota, all eight heads turned in his direction and followed him towards the men's room. 

The waitress popped out from the kitchen between a pair of double hung doors carrying a tray full of coffee cups, You dudes can sit anywhere you like; there's a booth for six in the far corner.

One by one, we used the facilities and returned to our table.  We watched the dawn paint in forests, canyons, and trails on the mountain slopes.  The desert exploded with color: barrel, saguaro, and chollo cacti sprang from undulating rock and dune surfaces across the plain.

We adhere to a strict Hindu vegetarian diet of rice with a pinch of saffron and curry, roti bread, and fresh steamed vegetables whenever possible— except, of course, when we are traveling.

Swami said, Let's have our tea and then we'll eat what we've got in the car.

Pachai said, We ate the last of the rice and bread yesterday and there's only one dried out samosa left.  We'll have to wait until we find an Indian food store or a supermarket.

How many hours to Santa Fe?

Two.  Then we'll need to find our rooms and do our shopping.

Well, perhaps we'll discover something on the menu that's not too offense to our way of life.  Pachai, you read English, what looks good?

Interpreting into Hindu he said, Today's Special: Two eggs with pork sausages, hash browns, toast with jelly, and coffee.

Anything else:

Here's one . . . Curried omelet with vegetables, and your choice of ham or chicken. Toast and coffee is included."

That one has possibilities.  Let's order four of those.  Substitute the ham or chicken with mushrooms.  And ask for tea instead of coffee.

The waitress came over to the tune of Redneck Woman by Gretchen Wilson.  Hi fellas, are you in a carnival or somethin'?

Pachai said, No mam.  This is Swami Ramakhanda Merdi and we are his Hindu followers.  We've been traveling America for two years holding lectures and meditations for people interested in our philosophy.  Now we're on our way to Santa Fe to convene events and build a new temple.

Fancy that.  I'm from San Antonio, Texas . . . a lot of born agains live down that way.

The Swami gave talks in Houston, Dallas, and San Antonio.  We have a loyal following in your hometown.

What'da ya know.  Well, Swaami, what'll ya hav'.

*  *  *

After several minutes of light conversation, the Swami said, I have an announcement to make:  I have chosen Santa Fe, New Mexico as the place for my transition to nirvana and eternal bliss.  I feel a robust spiritual energy emanating from the city.  In addition, it accommodates one of our largest followings.  Tahu, you will make arrangement?

Yes, Swami, it will be a pleasure.

There was chatter around the table—laughing, smiling, and congratulating—for a transition, is a happy and joyous event made only by a master after many lifetimes of study and meditation. 

*  *  *

We continued our journey: springtime in the desert elicits lupin, daisies, poppies that scattered across the plain and coalesce on sunny slopes.  White, yellow, and red blooms dot the cacti and a sparse green cloaks the entire scene. 

An ascended Hindu master can decide when he will die.  There is an advantage to this form of ending— one can avoid living through a painful illness, debilitating old age, or move on when one's work is done on earth.  And passing away is painless and natural—one simply expires during sleep. 

As we traveled north, I considered my assignment; I would need to contact funeral homes and carpenter shops to find a casket and somehow arrange for the funeral service.  A Hindu master is traditionally burned on a pyre along a river, not a custom or a legal undertaking in America.

I wonder what day the master plans to make his transition?

"Tahu, I will be making my transition two weeks from today on the 30th of the month.  It's a new moon and the earth cycle