Metal ladies

Looming somewhere on the outskirts of I'm guessing most American cities, and cutting through the countryside like sentinels watching over the expanse, steel transmission towers carry electricity onward, inward, and outward. These tower networks are stark and solitary. Not much resides underneath them -- maybe a park or a golf course, but not houses or apartments. The towers stand alone but define a path.

Since I was little, transmission towers have always fascinated me. I could care less about the technical workings of how they carry electricity. The structures themselves made the impression. To me, they always looked anthropomorphic, as if many were designed to look like people, forming a socially distanced line across the land. 

And when I saw those lines, I knew we weren't in the city anymore. If you look on a street-level map, the towers might not show up, but you can trace the course they take because most side streets don't cut across the land. Satellite maps offer a more defined view, such as this (I hope this link works) image of the two towers in the middle of Chick Evans Golf Course in Glenview, Illinois.

The music video for "The End of the Innocence" by Don Henley shows him at one point singing in front of steel transmission towers. The music video, directed by David Fincher and filmed in black and white, is nowhere to be found on the internet, but that scene perfectly encapsulates what the towers represent to some people.

Ben has been swimming in the suburbs on the weekends, and instead of working from the car, I found a park with bike trail a few miles away from the pool where I could run. After about a mile, the trail leaves the park, crosses a busy street, ducks under a highway, and then follows that highway for a few miles. Along the trail for some of the way, transmission towers of varying shapes and sizes accompanied my run.

Some people might find scenery unflattering and uninspiring, especially for a run. I found it oddly motivating. As I run, the metal ladies remind me of the wonder and awe that doesn't strike me as I once did. I found myself simply looking at a tower, top to bottom, admiring the structure, noticing the rust, trying to listen for electricity crackling across the wires.

Eventually, I turned around to run back to the car. The view to the left was the towers. To the right and ahead, on the ridge the trail was traversing, the Wasatch Front stood, with mountains as far away as Brigham City (about 70 miles north) visible. 

This was a moment, and sometimes, I try to absorb moments but find them bouncing off me. At age 50, I want to feel awestruck and impressed, even in a setting that doesn't immediately scream beauty. The transmission towers have a presence. The mountains miles away also have a presence. In that moment, I tried my best to be present. 

That was about a month ago. May is almost a week old and I'm already feeling my favorite month is zipping by too quickly. I can imagine the human-resembling towers, forging a path of wire and current, not caring if they're noticed or not. Their path is clear, but mine is not so defined -- and fortunately so. And every once in a while, the two paths cross.