“Over the years, I have learned to find sustenance where there is scarcity,” photojournalist Krista Schlyer writes in Almost Anywhere. “In the bend of dune grass under an ocean breeze. A solid rock for luncheon rest on a sunny peak. The wings of a heron reflected in low flight over the Anacostia River.” In these and more, Schlyer has discovered what it means to walk the tenuous line between exquisite joy and mind-numbing pain. As her readers, we are invited to join her on that precarious walk.
It is tempting to draw comparisons here—say, with John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, written more than 50 years ago. Each is an account of a yearlong road trip in search of an intangible something— in his case, the American character; in hers, a kind of serenity that only “this grand, graceful Earth can give.”
Instead of Charley the standard poodle, however, Schlyer travels with a “big-eared furry runt of a dog” named Maggie and a curmudgeonly friend named Bill. Also unlike Steinbeck, who allegedly fabricated many of his encounters with colorful strangers, Schlyer does indeed meet a number of eccentric types, including a naked old man near a hot spring in Utah. And whereas Steinbeck only talked about camping in national parks along the way, Schlyer and her companions actually do so—in deserts and mountain forests, amid swarms of mosquitos and in the company of loons. Only on those rare occasions when she can convince Bill to loosen his grip on the purse strings do they deign to stay in a motel. This is, after all, a pilgrimage, not a relaxing vacation.
Just as Schlyer’s journey takes her across the breadth of the country, it also takes her through an emotional and spiritual landscape fraught with extremes—awe in the presence of great beauty, desolation in the wake of great loss. Daniel, the love of her life, has died, and Krista must learn how to carry on. Similarly adrift, Bill must reorient himself; in losing Daniel, he has lost his best friend. Having sold most of their possessions, pooled their money, and bought a car, Krista and Bill set out on the road toward healing, and in the process, sort out their own relationship and set a new course. Maggie just goes along for the ride.
Almost Anywhere: Road Trip Ruminations on Love, Nature, National Parks, and Nonsense is everything the title suggests. Fifteen years in the making, this memoir is at the same time lyrical and plainspoken, laugh-out-loud funny and wise. Deeply moving in places, it rings true for anyone who has ever experienced profound grief. It also stirs the wanderlust in us all, that desire to explore, to get in the car and go.
More than anything, though, Schlyer reminds us of what the natural world can teach us, not just about finitude and loss, about the cycle of which we’re a part, but also about grace.
It is while standing a mere 15 feet from a herd of bison in Yellowstone National Park that Schlyer sees where this trip has been taking her. She is afraid at first, and she should be; at 500 pounds apiece, this herd could kill her in an instant. When she shifts her position between the bison and the river, they shift as well. “I can either think my way out of such close proximity to these giants or draw a halt to my rising panic,” she writes. She chooses the latter.
Schlyer’s epiphany comes when the herd simply ignores her as they make their way to the river. “I am nothing to them,” she realizes, “a moth, a varmint, beneath notice. But they have given me back my life, pressed paddles to my heart and (clear!) drummed me with electric shock. I have not been so alive for years, perhaps never.”
Although she will continue to carry the wound of Daniel’s loss, Schlyer has also been given a gift: the knowledge that, like this remnant herd of bison, grazing as bison have done for eons, she, too, can carry on. In being ignored by the brute power of the universe, she has gained “liberation from self-pity.”
Later, Schlyer is able to put words to this experience. It was at that moment, she explains, that she discovered her vocation for speaking for the natural world. “If the bison can hold on and hold fast to his work on the landscape until the landscape itself is returned to him,” she observes, “then maybe I can rebound from hopelessness by helping him try to get there—however I can.”
Fortunately for her readers, Schlyer has made good on this promise, giving us a remarkable body of work in her photographs and words.