The bones of the older generation still stood, as if unaware they had all died in 1988. Stark, charcoal-gray, silent but for the wind whistling between them, the dead lodgepole pines once had the slope overlooking Yellowstone Lake all to themselves, even before the wildfire. A hiker then could have easily moved across the forest floor, which consisted only of a brown carpet of cast-off needles and pine cones. After the blaze, the dead trees were still alone, but not for long. Some had fallen, becoming homes for returning beetles and windblown fungal spores. The fire, licking the pine cones, burned off the thick resin which covered them, releasing the seeds and allowing them to germinate in the sunlight-drenched, nutritious ash. Other plants, once prevented from growing because of the deep shade on the old forest floor, also sprang up from the soil, taking advantage of the light now streaming down through the skeletal remains of the elders.
Thirty years later, there was a riotous cotillion of life at the feet of the older trees, making it difficult for Rachel and Finn to hike very far into the thicket from the road. There were hundreds of young lodgepole pines, some already over twenty feet tall, gathered at the feet of their dead parents, clustered with other shrubs.
"This is amazing, Finn," he heard her say, looking about in wonder.
And it was. The idea that such a calamity, such a wholesale tearing down of what once was, could then turn around and give rise to such new hope resonated with him. He felt the urge to relate it to human experience in some way, perhaps in a song. There was that familiar, giddy rush of creativity.
The two of them worked their way to the crest of the slope, and gazed down on huge Yellowstone Lake. Even on the far shore, the forest bore the same kinds of scars.
"The fire must have been enormous!" Rachel exclaimed. The breeze off the lake was cool and refreshing; they stood, arms around each other, just taking in the sight. He told her about his idea, and she rushed them back to Kurt's car, insisting he had to write everything down while it was still fresh.
He leaned against the hood of the car, filling in the little lyrics and thoughts notebook he had been keeping, while Rachel lay on her back in the grass by the road, watching the perfect cotton-ball clouds roll by. Something about her face, looking deeply at peace, struck him then. Maybe the metaphor he was looking for was them. What they had now seemed so much deeper, richer, than when they were in high school. Maybe, just maybe, their separation, that tearing down of the old them, made it possible for the equable, rich love affair they had now to blossom. He wasn't quite sure. But he underlined the idea several times on the pages. The long drive to Lima, starting tomorrow, would give him time to mull it over further. He was glad that he had made arrangements for Bob to sell his car; there was little of his stuff to add to Rachel's in Kurt's car, and now they could be together the whole trip.
Their campsite the night before had been excellent. After dinner they sat by the fire, and, entranced, listened to the hauntingly lonely sound of wolves howling. They talked, about Jane and Tom, and how they would always fit into their life together somehow, and it was wonderful that the old insecurities remained buried. They lay in the tent, in the dark, trying to uncover the essence of their relationship, only to laughingly give up, conceding that it was indefinable, mysterious, yet somehow nourishing, sustaining, and good. When they made love that night, it was fiery, celebratory, and deeply, deeply satisfying. Clinging to each other afterwards, all of their physical and emotional needs met, both knew there was one more thing of which each was one-hundred percent sure: they were happy.
A great horned owl woke them up in the early morning, with its startlingly loud, yet deeply low hoot. Rachel scrambled out of the tent wearing only a t-shirt to try and call it closer. Finn loved her cry of delight when she managed to get the owl to approach them. She claimed to have seen it in one of the trees, but he couldn't see it at all. Later, as she snuggled back into his arms, she told him about the owl at the rest stop, and how she remembered the class they took together.
After the sun rose, she made him one of the best cups of coffee he ever had. Of course, he wasn't sure if the impossibly-fresh air or just the fact it was Rachel making it that gave it such a delicious flavor. Maybe both. He told her it was because she made it, naturally. She sang him a song from the musical as a reward. He laughed to himself; nobody knew this outdoorsy side of her but him. It wasn't a secret, particularly, but people tended to assume a lot about Rachel Berry upon first meeting her. Hell, he had done a lot of that himself. But Rachel always pitched in on everything, wasn't afraid of getting dirty (too much), and didn't even require an air mattress- a simple thermal pad was enough. Finn used a rolled up field coat as a pillow; she used him.
They stayed at a motel outside of Yellowstone the next night. The room was small, but the water heater was large, and they took full advantage of it—Finn pulled Rachel into the shower with him, and had her against the tiles, her arms around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist, her moaning loudly, head against his shoulder. They had only done this once before, years ago, fumbling and awkward and laughing their asses off. This time it was slick, steam-fueled intensity, two toned bodies embracing tightly, fighting gravity and the urge to come too quickly. When she found release, he felt her whole body whip away and then slap against him, like the release of a bowstring, biting his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, then her lips on his, kissing like he'd never been kissed before, predatory, Rachel relentlessly hunting down his orgasm, crushing him when it shudderingly arrived, all tingling down his legs and almost passing out. Afterwards, both their eyes wide and bright under the rushing water, gasping for breath, she solemnly offered him the soap, then burst into giggles.
Clean and sated, they crawled between the gloriously clean sheets, There was nothing to do but just be, together. Rachel fell asleep first, but not before mumbling she loved him. Somehow, it felt different when she said that to him now. Better, even though he would probably have thought that impossible seven years ago.
"I love you too," he said, and followed her soon after.
The next day Finn told Rachel they had to make two more stops before actually heading back. The first stop was Red's Bar in Sheridan, where Finn and Rachel hugged Red before saying good-bye, and then onwards southwest, up, into the Bighorns, to the Medicine Wheel.
The weather was perfect; the view from the top of that bare ridge spectacular. Hand-in-hand, they approached the fence, and Finn fished a small, exquisitely tooled, brown leather pouch with intricate beadwork from his coat pocket. It contained shreds of tobacco, and he reverently hung it on the fence alongside other offerings, some touchingly humble, like the cigarettes with the filters broken off. It was here, he explained to her, that the sense he needed more to integrate first manifested itself.
"I don't know how," he said, "but this place somehow convinced not to stay in Sheridan. I needed to find Jane and get squared away, I guess." He touched her face. "So I could be with you again."
Rachel nodded silently.
Just then a feeling came over him, something he hadn't felt since he was eight years old. Back then he has sitting in the living room with his mother, and tried imagining himself on the ceiling, looking down at his mother and him. He'd heard a friend at school taking about out-of-body experiences, or OBE's. Fascinated, he tried to imagine what that would be like. Much to his surprise, there was a fleeting moment, far too ethereal and delicate to maintain for more than a fraction of a second, where he did see himself and his mother from the ceiling, as if his soul had detached from his body and floated away. He felt that way now, only it wasn't fleeting, but sustained. He was soaring, the spoked outline of the Medicine Wheel, Rachel and his body far below. His winged shadow passed over them, the warm air rising from below, pushing him higher as he circled. Then he saw them: three golden eagles come to join him, their fierce warrior-eyes meeting his, unblinking. They wheeled together in the sky, Finn knowing them now, silently thanking them, promising them, then letting them go as they flew off into the West, the traditional land of the dead.
"Finn?" He felt Rachel tugging at his sleeve. "Are you okay?"
He didn't answer right away; his feet still had talons and he could hear and feel the smooth sliding of feather on feather. Then it was gone. He was back, looking into her face. Peace.
"I'm fine," he answered simply, with a smile that could only be called secret because he would never be able to explain it. He put his arm around her. "Let's go."