It is only natural when a season ends to reflect a bit. Sometimes we would rather not, and I get that, too. Nevertheless, my mind naturally wants to reflect on all that has happened these past 364 days. On this last day of 2024. I find myself looking through the images I have taken during the year. Which one represents this year’s past events? Which one sums it all up? Which one brings joy or peace or both? I am very happy with many of them, but this one, a version I posted last February (“Sleepers Awake!”) is a different perspective of the scene and for some reason, I was drawn into it as it offered up a different lesson for me.

This smallish tree is in full spring bloom. Surrounded by other trees still soundly in their winter’s nap, this one bursts forth, exclaiming that life is abundant. And it is. The scene to me forms a tapestry of textures that resemble the year. Dormant sticks, unaware of life passing by, are transformed by the blossoms of vibrant life, so much so that it is uncontainable.

And so I share with you, my friends, this image of hope from 2024. Even when it feels as though life is just a bunch of sticks, when our heart feels as cold as the winter’s night, there is yet purpose and there is yet hope. Sometimes we may need to lean on others to see it, but there is always the lesson of the blossom; the miracle that appears from a bunch of sticks. Of course, they are only sticks until these petals of joy spring out and we see them for what they are–living limbs!

As I see my own limbs in contrast, how have they been fruitful? What good have they done this past year? What good might they do this year? How might they be of help to those around me? In the cold, dark season of the winter, these thoughts bring encouragement and warmth to my heart and I know that spring will be here soon enough. Seasons do that–they come and go. And for some unknown reason, that gives me great hope for tomorrow.

Blossoms to us all in this New Year.

Peace.

Stepping out of my normal haunts, I made my way out recently to visit some dear friends and most unexpectedly encountered a bit of an unearthly realm. This particular journey was intentionally not a photography excursion, rather it was to spend time together. As you will see, I couldn’t not pause and try and capture a moment of the creation of this great area of the world. But be advised, it is nothing if just a hint of the glories I witnessed.

Some call it the American Alps, but perhaps an even even better title is the “Crown of the Continent,” for truly, if you have not been to Glacier National Park in Montana, your life will only ever be incomplete. It is a sad truth and something I did not even know or comprehend how incomplete my life was until I sat at the foothills of this great spectacle. There were times I just could not speak, it was so grand. Robin Williams rather famously quipped, “If this isn’t God’s backyard, He certainly lives nearby.” And I think that might be true.

Towering peaks, gushing falls, crystal clear lakes and streams, deep forest canopies, wildlife just about everywhere, and not to mention the many, many glaciers themselves. One of the most famous and impressive waterfalls is Bird Woman Falls. And when the water level is just right, towards the base of the falls, two rock structures appear to create angel wings. It is of angels that my mind strays to. Standing off the side of the road, some 8,000 feet up into the mountain pass, the stiff, brisk air clawing at me, my mind drifts into this otherworldly garden. I know enough about geology to understand generally how this land came to be in this current state, but again I am held in awe of the Gardner who put it all together. He must employ thousands of garden attenders so that each rock, valley, and tree is just so and in a harmony I think we humans can only dream about. I don’t think I actually could imagine such beauty no matter how hard I tried.

In the stillness, the mountain wind gently reminds me that we are very high up and I attempt a photograph. I know the camera simply cannot capture this kind of grandeur, but I feel compelled to try. I am just aware that my dear friends are sitting in the truck; no hurries at all, just waiting–attending. I am equally struck at how in our lives we have some beings who somehow connect to us. And that connection over time is strong and lovely. And when we didn’t even know we needed them, there they were, sitting nearby until we were ready to take the next step in life.

I drink deeply of this moment of awe and I struggle to understand it all. It is just so glorious. In that glory, I ponder the angels of my life, two of whom sit nearby and giggle with joy at how overwhelmed I am in this garden of gardens. I am aware that my mouth has been agape for some time now. I shut it, only slightly self-conscious.

Whether of heavenly or earthly origins, we each have our dear loved ones who we think of first in a trial or a tribute, a dilemma or a delight–these are who we look to in our life moments. And whether I know it or not, I do the same for others in their moments, too. It is the way of things and while I cannot explain it any more than I can convey with any sense of justice the beauty and magnificence of this view before me, my thoughts are still drawn back to my earthly angels who minister to me in ways that I cannot comprehend.

With great reluctance, I turn my eyes away from the valley and the rushing waters that fall, seemingly from Heaven itself, along the cliff face. A last glance at the angel sitting resolute at the bottom and then I see my two friends, watching me from inside the truck with grins a mile wide. As I open the door to clamber back inside, I still can’t seem to get any words out. Laura says, “I know, right? There really aren’t any words.” Steve sits with his boyish grin, a sparkle in his eye and says nothing, which just about covers it. Nothing and everything.

The trail, if you can call it that, more of a mountain goat trail, follows the curve of the water. Higher up in the coastal mountains, the waters gather from nearby peaks into the valleys, eventually making their way to this magnificent creature, the Elkton River.

This was a bit of dumb luck, if I am honest. On a whim, I turned my car along the road that skirts the south side of the river near the ocean. Winding its way up into the hillside, the pavement turned into washboard gravel. After only a few minutes of feeling like I was on an actual washer board, ancient hands jarring me up and down, I spotted what looked like a good place to park and hike along the river to see what I could see. It was dry enough that I created a bit of a dust storm following me along the road. It dissipated quickly enough and I was left with this lush, coastal forest–not quite a rainforest–but dense and full of life. Gathering my pack, I figured if nothing else, hiking along a river into the coastal mountains isn’t the worst way to spend the day.

I stepped into the forest canopy from the road and the river called out in its rushing voice, sounding like a strong wind in an alpine treeline, its many voices sometimes a chorus, sometimes just a solo, but constantly changing in its babble speak. Regardless, River seemed content in its rush to get to the ocean.

The bank, a mix of brush and rocks, some river worn, some just broken remnants of larger boulder glory days, but mostly a kind of scree, the footing was rather loose as rocks shifted under my weight. Carefully, I scrambled over the terrain, keeping an eye out for the general trail line and how far up I was from the water’s edge. I lean sharply towards the bank so as not to lose my balance and find myself suddenly flowing with the River down to the ocean. The rock scree eventually settled down into a decent trail that skirted the water and led upstream toward the source of the river.

Above the water’s joyous music, the distinct sound of falling rocks hitting together caused me to pause. My eyes were so fixed on each step that I wasn’t looking upstream until this sharp sound caused me to halt. Scrambling up and back into the woods, a juvenile black bear panickily headed for cover from this wild and disruptive visitor. His long juvenile legs reminded me of my own children when they were all knees and elbows during their middle years. I am prepared for such encounters and instantly, my bear spray was at the ready, just in case. However, my frightened friend was gone into the thicket before I could hardly blink. Just a hint of adrenaline coursed through my veins, my body also getting me ready for whatever may come. In all of my years of hiking, I have rarely had any black bear encounters, their senses so attuned that they can smell and hear me coming a mile away, allowing them to find their own version of safety in the woods long before I have any chance of seeing them. This young bear, most likely just playing by the water’s edge, my sounds masked by the River-song, probably will have much to share with his mother when he catches up to her. “Mom, you will never guess what I just saw!” I can see her bear smile as she comforts her young one. “There, there. It is a strange creature indeed, but generally does not mean us any harm. They are also very clumsy and slow. But it is always best to keep an eye out for them; they are unpredictable at best.” Or, something like that. Such is the wisdom of the mama bear.

I pause to catch my breath and to let the bear have plenty of time to get to high ground; my eyes survey this other fine watery creature. Serpentine-like, she winds down through this valley, jumping over boulders, falling down ravines, and stopping to ponder life in deep pools of glistening, clear waters. Across on the other bank, a small forest of oak trees, ancient in days and covered in tree beard mosses, are poised in a joyous dance, their movement too slow for my eye to catch, but I imagine that over the course of a few hundred years, those arms of branches are raised up in adoration for the Gardner whose clever hand placed each one just so; first as a small acorn caught between a rock and the earth and then rooting, it became a seedling and now full grown into the wise old tree that it is, mosses and leaves swaying in the river breeze. Praise to the maker indeed. I can’t stop the smile across my face.

The sweat on my brow forms its own rivulet and streams down my nose and falls to the rocks below. I involuntarily wipe my forehead and step forward up the trail. There is much to see, but I was not prepared for what I would find around the next bend as it truly took my breath away. The trail headed to a rock wall of sorts and I clambered up, the rush of the not-quite-waterfall, not-quite-rapids of the water splashed and laughed with vigor to my left. Ascending to the top of this collection of car-sized water-worn rocks, the whole world was transformed and I entered into what appeared to be another realm.

Like a ravine made from emeralds, the waters pooled into a calm arena, allowing River to catch its breath and pause for a short season before continuing the long journey to the coast. The waters were deep green, pure, and so clear I could see all the way to the bottom. The sun came to play as well, reflecting deep into the waters, bouncing back up and around to the canyon walls: stunning sparkles and glints flashing this way and that. I was suddenly aware of the river song now. So soft and almost imperceptible, the shouts of the faster waters down below somehow falling away into the distance leaving this peaceful space to be filled with quiet and warmth.

I also realized I was now standing in a sacred place, on hallowed grounds. As if invited by the Gardner Himself to sit–I do. The heat of the sun and the cool of the waters combine into a surreal environment that both gave me both chills and warmth at the same time. My eyes are mesmerized by the water. So green and blue, I feel these are the most prized of all emeralds. Rich in colors, ever changing, and not one possessable by us mere mortals. These are precious gems for another world.

I am aware, and slightly overwhelmed, that I have been gifted this sacred moment, one that will last for my entire life. The trees poised in their eternal stance of praise that led me into this chasm of gems tucked into this mountainous cathedral; a collection that any fabled dragon would be obsessed with protecting. River speaks her subtle wisdom to me as I sit transfixed. I don’t know the language, but somehow my heart understands it well enough. I am awash in the moment.

The sun on my neck pulls me from my stupor and I am mindful that I am probably getting burnt. A poor reason to move on, but a reasonable one. My frail skin and bones, infinitely miniscule and mortal in the presence of such eternity and holiness reminds me that I cannot stay. The time has come to move from this sanctified space to my ordinary subsistence.

As I turn to continue upstream, my boots upon the rocks somehow jarring and unsure, I feel the change in me. I will return to my human life, but with it I will bring this moment, this space, this peace, this reverence. I am allowed to take these emeralds after all, but not with the hand–only the heart. It is a gift for sure and I receive it humbly and gratefully, however unexpectedly that it was given.

I look upon hills shrouded in clouds far ahead, my hands hang by my side.

The way’s unclear and a sigh escapes deep from within tumbling passed my lips

For over each I am burdened to ascend and from them, I cannot hide.

Only to descend once again into the valley, stone-cast is this script. 

A struggle is this journey up, heart beating, each tendon and fiber stressed

Stumbling then from the summit, unsure and precarious is this trail

My feet unstable, each rock a duress, often I fail this part of the test.

The silence o’rwhelming, I am alone as I strain to see through the veil.

Valley storms settling on all things, winds torment and the rain suppresses.

Shiv’ring, I pause and look upon the way, unsure of where it is I now stand. 

Though yet from such despair, the very air stands still and such grace outstretches

Like dawn rays upon the night, all is calm, all is light–I now see your hand!

In my darkened state I did not know you were just there, such was my load.

Our hands meet and clasp tight. At once there is warmth and safety and delight

That can only come from another sojourner who dares upon this road.

Your leading hand draws me close in and together we pass through from this night.

In hand we now explore our next steps. By step by step, we walk together

Helping each other up along the way and safely down into the fray.

How could I ever travel this alone, surviving such treacherous weather?

This journey is transcendent holding hands, together we divine the way. 

Hands are meant to hold onto and grasp, to lift up and guide across the land

To carry us through the good and sad–all is well when we are hand in hand.  

As if caught in a spell, the land swells and then holds

Like a tide, youthful green are the hills in my sight.

Unawares, I am lost and in awe of these wolds.

Fields of green and of jade, of seafoam and mal’chite

In a concert of waves that are trapped and held fast

And then crash on the shores of my thoughts and my plight.

At the top of each crest, softly kissed, it won’t last

Snow so gentle it’s but a temporary cap;

Inner fires are now lit ‘gainst this long frigid grasp.

Such great myst’ry unfolds in this burst from coldsnap

Each slim blade a deep yawn, unfurled heads now revealed.

The wry Gardner’s hands clap! And rebirth is unwrapped.

O this ocean of green, the snow melts, Winter yields.

I am caught in the waves of these hills held afield.

The day is not quite yet. The air is sullen and groggy, as if it knows it needs to waken, but would rather pretend that it doesn’t need to today. Everything feels sleepy, including me. I stumble along the water’s edge, my boots finding firm and then more often, less than firm foundations to perch upon. Sometimes the ground, feeling irritable at my unpleasant steps upon it, resists. It grabs at my boots, holding one in place. Feeling the spongy and wet beneath, I pull my foot up and the earth reluctantly releases me, with a slurpy, suctiony utterance. The closer I move toward the waterline, the more I find myself in this sticky battle for progress. Pausing to find a new path forward, my headlamp highlights the reeds and grasses around me and what looks like a deer trail of sorts appears; a lane forward and in the direction of where I want to be when the sun does open his eyes and declare the dawn of the day.

My pants are soaked. The heavy dew on the plants seem to leap towards me as I push my way through the waste-high vegetation. The air is crisp. We are not yet spring, as much as we might long for it to be. Canada geese honk and hoot their way across the river. I try not to be annoyed, but it is such a racket in contrast to this serenity.

What is the reason for my early morning trek? Osaberry Tree? Serviceberry Tree? I really don’t know what is her kind, but I saw her across the river, standing out like a solitary beacon amid the drab, blacks and browns of the other seemingly lifeless trees nearby. I love this pre-spring time, when these shocks of white and subtle pink flowers burst forth from the hardened and wet limbs of these small trees. Some are only as high as my knee, others like this one, swell to significant heights and widths. Compared to the wintry scape, this burst of life, like a diligent sentinel, sounds the alarums to anyone who will listen: “It is time! It is time! Sleepers awake! It is time!”

I feel it before my eyes register; the sky has become visible. To be fair, it is another dreary, winter’s day, and the amount of work the sun is going to have to do if he is to be heard at all is, well, let’s just say I hope he is up for the task. The Oregon coastal clouds are mighty, often commanding copious amounts of mist and fog to their cause. This is their playground to be sure, and I would be wise to remember so. In a moment, they can open the heavens and pour great rivers of water down from above. My chilled and now very wet body shivers against the brisk, wintry air. I keep moving and earth grabs hold of my boot again in our elongated game of step and grab and I nearly tumble over, the weight of my camera gear causing an extra level of instability. I catch myself and pull my boot free from the mud. “Just you wait until this rainy season is over, Earth.” I mutter aloud. “Who will be laughing then when I can simply walk right over you on the dry dirt?” I realize I probably sound crazy to anyone who happened to be standing by and just in case, I cast my eyes about. Nope–all alone. I chuckle, half to myself and half to that imaginary nearby critic. The land begins to take form with the brightening of the dawn. You do have to be a little mad to be out here like this. 

Up ahead, the shoreline juts out a bit; not quite a spit, but enough that it will make a good place to set up my camera. This tree I spied a few days ago across the river was just beginning to show her brilliance, and is now in her full glory for all to see and revel. She truly is magnificent. Full and flowering, she is larger than most trees of her kind that I have seen. Maybe twenty or thirty feet tall and half again as wide. The water is slow on this part of the Umpqua as it settles into the final leg of its journey to the oceans deep. The river, tired from all of the collecting from each tributary, jumping over rocks and trees, cascading down from the hills of the coastal inland, gathering together to wrestle into white waters and falls and rivulets and any number of eddies along the way–the waters have settled, flowing easily now, the more turbulent part of their journey completed. Now is the time to flow lazily. Many miles have they traveled from the more vibrant waters of youth to this now gracefully aged and contented form, awaiting another transformation into the teaming ocean. My mind wonders a moment; is this river somehow representative of our human experience and could the ocean be the heaven we have to look forward to? Freshwater creatures to be made anew into the brine of waters unknown, at least unknowable to us in our current whimsical state?

My boot sinks into a particularly muddy space pulling my attention back to this moment. Earth grabs ahold again and then chortles as I pull my foot out slowly from the muddy, slurping grasp. I tire of this game, but earth seems to enjoy it each time. I focus on the brilliance across the water. She is just stunning, this tree. Like the brightest star in the morning sky, I can’t help but stand amazed. Leafless alders of a much taller stance, yet somehow diminutive in the presence of such dignity, huddle round her like protective maidens.

The light shifts again and I need to focus on my purpose. I settle into the technical and artistic actions of trying to capture this portrait–what is the right gear, exposure, composition, etc.? Some aspects of this task are intuitive after all of these years; others I know I need to labor to achieve. The timing of the sun (who is now feeling empowered to wake everyone up with his own brilliance) can make or break an early morning image like this. Enough light to bring out texture and colors and the very nature of the scene. Too much and the feeling of the moment is lost. No story to share.

I pause and take it all in. The Canada geese have also paused their early morning hooting, as if they were commanded to be silent for this sacred moment. I find myself holding my own breath as the scene envelopes us all. A shroud of mist swirls up from the trees and hillside nearby, like an intricate train or cloak for her majesty. There is a hand at work here; this Gardener’s own brilliance revealed in placing this exquisite tree just so. As if for no other reason but to show the beauty of the wild–seemingly just for me, but also for everyone who has the eyes to see it. I am grateful she caught mine. The scene is one of dreams; even so, I find that I am now more awake than ever.

I think that is just the way of it.

Peace.

I woke up early, somewhat confused and disheveled. I feel old, older than I should be. Perhaps it is just tiredness expressing itself to me. I methodically brew a cup of coffee. Slightly unaware of my actions, my hands seem to know what to do. It is dark and there is a chill in the air that is different somehow at this time; I wonder aloud, why? 

I find a fallen log to perch from and look out over the land. It is still. Still. I can just hear the wind in the tree branches as if the trees themselves are held in some Gregorian tree-chant, low and hallowed. But even the wind is careful at this hour. Thoughtlessly, I sip the hot coffee, careful not to burn my tongue and I make a small slurping noise that disrupts the still. I am self-conscious and immediately embarrassed by my disturbance of the sacredness of this forest cathedral. I bow my head, as if in penance, hands embracing the heated cup somewhat prayer-like. 

I am aware of the sky now. Once the pure black of nothingness, the twilight hour has arrived and the black takes on a deep blue shroud. Clouds cover us from the view of heaven and the deep cosmos, like a comforter that I suddenly long for as the brittle air creeps into my bones. 

Mesmerized, I gaze across the meadow, watching the world wake up with the sun. I wake up, too. My senses becoming alert to the life all about. The sky continues to lighten, like my sleepy eyes slowly opening to take it all in.

There is first one, then another, and then a chorus emerges. A melody of birdsong erupts to fill the air with their timeless and ancient song and in stark contrast to the hushed murmur of the trees. Each a different instrument, perfectly tuned for this moment as the day breaks. I’m no birder by any means, but here is what I could hear: pheasant, turkey, scrub jay, robin, hawk (I suspect red tailed—I have seen a number on the journey nearby), northern flicker (their comical call to each other, laughing at any and everything), the deeper hoot of two owls calling to each other (I absolutely love that) and then a number of sparrow and finch varieties that I have no idea what their names are, but are now playing tag with each other, swooping between tree and bush as easily as if it were simply a casual stroll. 

As it gets lighter, the spell of the predawn grows. A mountain mist forms in the hills, coming up from out of the trees and ground as if its cup was filled to overflowing. Held in place it expands and takes on an ethereal weight. As if instructed by a mysterious Conductor, it descends down the hillside, gracefully enveloping the trees and shrubs and daintily settles in the field below, leaving a trail of what appears like a timeless waterfall, a ghostly echo of some past.  

For a moment, the birds all stop their chatter, as if to pay homage to this mysterious procession of the mist. I imagine the Conductor, His hands held up high to pause the symphony for dramatic cause. A pause for the deep breath of the new day. Everythings seems to stop and the moment carries an eternity of mornings. But it is just a moment, hardly a second or two I am sure, although I could not tell you in actuality for I too am trapped in this moment, spellbound. 

And then a hormone charged turkey breaks the silence and I chuckle aloud—just like the turkey to break this magical air, reminding us not to take it all so seriously. The melody begins once again and everyone plays toward an increasing crescendo. To the unaware, it is simply a cacophony. Background noise that is ever present and to be tuned out by our busy agendas. Guiltily, I lean into the orchestrated song. If I try hard, I can push my thoughts away and just be. 

As if also on cue, frogsong chime in from the nearby marsh. They bring a cautious melody to this expansive concert hall, but one that signifies spring may be nearby. It is too early for spring and their song timidly notes this. But I long for the spring as well. The winter can linger, and it is dark and bleak, but I feel with my amphibious friends; spring is near, nonetheless. 

The sun, he crests the hillside and peaks his face in between the clouds, which now resemble so many cotton tufts. The deep breath of the new day. The dark and blue of twilight gives way to the light and warmth of the sun and the chill that once was, slips away–for it is not something the sun can allow. 

This solemn ritual ends and we recess to the fullness of the day once again. From sacred song to turkey call, such is the gift of each day. 

The trail switches back and forth, skirting the wooded hillside. My legs are grateful for each turn as the steepness of the terrain is greatly reduced. What was once a gentle fog, a subtle mist descends and tickles my face. The very air feels different; dense like water, yet still breathable. My body heats up as I work to climb. Beads of sweat mix with the mist on my face and neck. Everything is wet. I am both hot and cold. The damp air bites at me, nibbling my skin where I am unprotected and vulnerable. I pause to catch my breath and watch as great heaps of steam pour forth from my mouth and nostrils like from a chimney or the dryer vent on a cold day.

Between breaths I begin to lose myself into the vastness of the wood. My senses struggle to keep up with the experience. Before me, stands of trees–each on a race toward the sun, their trunks poised like some platoon–they unite in cause and purpose. Into the distance they fade and march away with the shrouding mist. The land is eerily quiet, not even a bird chirps to warn others of my trespassing into their sacred space. And that is what this is–a sacred space. Hardly describable, we just know that it is. I listen intently for the wisdom of the wood but only hear my heart beating under the labor of my march.

The mist creates water droplets on my eyelashes and I sweep my glove across my eyes to wipe the water off. When I open my eyes, the mist lifts just enough for me to take in what was hiding in the early morning. A valley in the woods comes into view. A gentle stream runs below and I can just now make out its soft babble. Probably some form of angel-speak, something we mortals are not allowed to understand, at least not this one. There is a cadence to it. It is happy no doubt, carrying on as it has since the beginning.

Near the stream, saplings appear at the foot of their giant elders. Each looking up to what they hope one day they will be, towering over the earth below and brushing the sky up above. Their forebears lie strewn about the forest floor. Further down into the valley a recent victim of a storm lies alarmingly horizontal and in sharp contrast to its brethren who continue upward. Already the vine maples, their foliage changing for the season, nearly cover up the fallen tree in a blanket of leaves only imagined in dreams. A fitting and holy tribute.

The Gardner has created quite the portrait here in the wood. Serene and vibrant all at the same time. The brook babbles on and I am struck by the completeness of this scene. Life and death subsist together. I feel the joy of the moment but I am intently now aware of the sorrow; and, without it how there can be no understanding of joy. Our sorrows are wrapped up in our joys and both reside in us always, each a gauge for each other. I let this moment sit with me for a bit; I don’t really know for how long.

My spine shivers in response to another sharp breeze against my sweat and I am brought back to this moment from wherever I drifted off to. I shift the load of my pack. I have a smile upon my face. I do not have the words to describe it, but somehow in the quiet I hear the ancient wisdom of this wood and am both grateful and deeply aware.

Peace

I did not know the load I carried.

Each step of the journey, heavier than the step before.

To carry on and on and on. Don’t stop, head down, and forward go.

To where?

I am perplexed at the complexity of the question.

To where am I heading as if my life depended on it?

Unable to answer, I pause.

Halt the trudging.

Halt the plodding.

Stop the plotting.

Stop.

Still unable to answer, I look up from the trail before me.

Looking up, I see.

Looking around, I feel.

Listening, I hear the babble

Of constant waters near.

I step to the side,

Off the trail and down an unfrequented path.

I see! The river’s edge is near.

Fall’s leaves clutching at branches above and blanketing the ground below.

To Here! I go.

The answer is simple.

I let my burden slip off. I am enlightened:

Both my back and my heart,

The worry resting at my feet.

Bright and full of life,

The place I need to be is here,

Sitting at the River’s edge.

To Here!

I am perplexed at the simplicity of the answer.

To Here am I heading as if my life depended on it.

As I settle my personal life down a bit, I am starting to carve out more time for wilderness adventures. For this post, I want to share a little from my hike into the Olympic National Park Rainforest. I had five days of hiking and camping in some of the most pristine wilderness. 

Now, one thing we need to be clear about: this is a rainforest. And in a rainforest, everything is in a state of living, dying, and decaying. Predominantly cedar and fir trees, there were a fair amount of maple and alder trees as well. I was hoping for some fall colors amidst the rain forest and there certainly were. But, it was not quite what my mind’s eye had envisioned. This is wild and chaotic. Almost a visual overload. Moss and lichens grow on everything in a rainforest. The maples in particular seem to be great candidates for moss. Each of the giant maples, some with trunks four or five feet in diameter and towering 100 feet or higher into the clouds, had so much moss on them, that their very leaves, a significant part of how a maple tree lives, are being slowly reduced to a handful on each branch. Craggly and old, each of these gentle giants battle the moss for existence and honestly, the moss is winning. Like the tree herders from JRR Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings, these friends kindly guided me along the trail. I could almost make out their voices in the deep quiet of the wood:

“You can do it.” 

“You are doing great.” 

“Remember to take your time” 

“Beauty is all around us, relax.” 

“Have a seat and rest awhile”

I liked that last suggestion, so I did. Unbuckling my pack, I let the 65-pound burden slip off and I felt my youth return, as if unburdened by life for a moment. Sitting on a fallen log–so many fallen logs in the rainforest– a mossy cushion for my tush, I breathe and take it all in. Just the wind in the trees whispering, there is scarcely a sound. An occasional squirrel chatters. A woodpecker flits between trees, and lights onto a nearby fir tree, clasping the vertical trunk as easily as if it were standing on the ground. It’s head cocks this way and then that. I am sure he looked right at me and realized, “Stranger danger!” and effortlessly soared away to another, more private tree to look for a meal. 

I drank some water as I drink in my surroundings. Somewhere deep in my fatigued body from the hike, I am restored. I pause my brain, which has been seeking subjects for my camera, and let it just be. The sun warms my skin and I take in my surroundings:  layer upon layer of trees in various states of growing or becoming what new trees are growing upon. On a fallen log nearby, I can see an entire ecosystem at work, right on the log–mosses, fungi, and fir tree seedlings all growing on the decomposing trunk. What an amazing design this all is! While to my artistic eye, it appears chaotic, there is a pattern to it all and I know that if I lean into just being while on this sojourn, I will see a subject for my camera; something that conveys how I feel as I leave the wild of civilization behind and step further into the wild of the rainforest.

I have miles to go before I can make camp, and under duress, my body obeys my will to put the pack back on and continue moving higher up and further into the park.

And so, not looking any longer for compositions, as I come around a bend on the trail, I see it. Young, so very young amidst its more mature family, a beautiful maple in fall glory stretches upward toward the intermittent and dappled sun that descends through the upper rainforest canopy. Yellows and oranges are in stark contrast to the green that is everywhere. Moss hangs down from its limbs, but it stands in defiance, resilient in this season as it makes its contribution to the forest community. And what a contribution it is! 

Something about that little tree standing amongst giants is inspiring, hopeful, and peaceful to my heart. Hundreds of years of life cycles can be seen all around. This is a wild wood. A wood that has eons of stories to share. Some familiar, some not so familiar. But each time I go into the woods, I learn more of those stories. Somehow it is our story, too. The impact of simply being in nature is something that I can’t quite articulate, but I hope you will feel that peace in this image like I do. In this season, I feel we could all use a little more peace. 

Even Better

A few weeks ago, I set off on a local trail with a friend and, other than my phone, I had no camera in hand–a truly unusual move for me. I almost delayed the hike to run by my house to get it, but I was already running late, so we headed up the trail without it. As we ascended the hill, the well-groomed trail gave way to some stunning views of hillside wildflowers and for most of the hike, I internally was kicking myself for not bringing my camera.

I am so used to having my camera with me on hikes, I felt a little off kilter as I worked to simply enjoy the scenery and the delightful conversation of my hiking partner. I made mental notes of where I wanted to come back and see if I could capture these wildflowers in bloom. Wildflowers are fleeting at best. Adapted to grow quickly when the conditions are right and then transitioning to seed in order to take advantage of the mountainous conditions, I knew that if I were to have any luck photographing them, I would need to come back in the next few days.

With no camera distraction, I found that I was thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the trail as well as what we were talking about. Our topics meandered much like the forest trail. Some parts are easier and some parts are harder. Both are important and a part of the hiking experience. So too, our sharing of life and work wandered from topic to topic. From children, now grown and making their way in the world, to the deep pain of divorce, or loved ones lost who have passed from this life to the next. An elaborate life trail system that rises and falls with each event. Every so often, we paused to gaze across the valley. What a sight!

As our journey ended, I was left filled with the joy of being out in nature with a friend and my once empty bucket, now felt full again as we each drunk deeply of the forest. Slightly sweaty from the joyous labor of the hike, the cool mountain air sent a small, sharp chill up my back. I am probably the odd man out on this, but I never get tired of that chill–kind of like the first plunge into a mountain lake, it is vigorously refreshing and a reminder that something good came of the hard work.

As fate would have it, my schedule just did not allow me to get back up that small mountain trail with my camera for another week and a half. During that time, the land was drenched by some much-needed rainstorms, but enough time had elapsed, I was certain those beautiful dots of purple would have long since passed. However, as I tackled the trail again, I was pleasantly surprised at what I encountered. So many more flowers now covered the ground! I couldn’t believe it. Where there were only hints of color from the previous hike, now the hillsides were covered in flowers. A river of pink Long-stemmed Clover, vibrant violet Shooting Stars, and the deep reds of Warrior’s Plume and Paintbrush. Everywhere I turned, there seemed to be another subject. Even a downed Madrone tree’s bark appeared to be full of life with its surface looking more like a watercolor than the lifeless tree trunk that it now was. And there is that theme again: life pushing through death.

It’s as if despite the austereness of any death, life finds a way to come about. As if that unseen Gardner’s hand transforms all lifelessness to life overflowing. The forest is wild and chaotic, a series of life and death struggles. Yet there is a master plan that is far more beautiful than anything I could envision, if only I am willing to take the time to see it. I reflect on my life so far and I can see that wild plan at work in my life, too. Even in this hike. Had I been able to hike the trail right after the first hike without my camera, I would have missed this whole display of life and beauty. While I was frustrated that I could not get back up there when I wanted to, how wonderful that the delay of a few days was well, even better? I am learning to let go of what I envision and allow something even better to occur. Beautiful moments happen all on their own. Like a week’s delay for a hike, nature has something more wonderful in mind.

Peace.

Hiking in the woods, one needs to keep one’s wits about. Getting lost is easier done than said. I tend to be pretty insistent to stay on the trail. Straying off the trail can be catastrophic. Fortunately, so many trails are well maintained in Oregon and staying on the path is pretty easy. On this hike along the redwoods, right on the upper edge of the Californian coast, I got lost in a different way and I wanted to invite those who were ready for a quiet adventure, a moment to get lost with me. This image is full of the wilderness. So much is happening, it can be a little hard to see the subject. I also think that each of us will see a different subject–one that is unique to you.

On the trail, I had been working my way up the steep incline, so my focus was not really on the beauty of the woods, but on keeping one foot in front of the other–”don’t stop” is my self talk and oddly and randomly, the “I think I can” phrase from The Little Engine That Could pops in and out of my thoughts. And, if I am honest, just trying to breathe is my focus. Up the hill I went.

Cresting the hill is always the best for me. I am usually panting pretty well, sweat dripping. I have a love-hate relationship sweating on a hike. I am grateful my body is working to cool me, but invariably, my back gets pretty wet under my pack. When I stop and remove the pack for any reason, there it is! A blast of cold mountain air down the back. Suddenly my hot, sweaty back is attacked by what feels like an arctic blast. Like little tiny icicles, poking fun at me for getting sweaty. I shrug it off.

In this moment, I was getting some water and recovering my breath from the fairly large hill I had just climbed. As I stood up with my water bottle, I had to pause, as if some large invisible hand had stopped my head from moving and looking anywhere else. What was this view? I instantly got lost in the intricacies of the creation in front of me. Down the fern covered ravine, my eyes wandered near and far in the inescapable beauty of the forest.

Deep greens in every hue were strewn about like some mad painter, hurriedly getting his vision onto canvas. The ground appeared to undulate as I gazed about. Off to the right, the sun was breaking through the treetops and the coastal mist, trying hard to give its much welcomed light to the forest floor. Sunrays sparkled and danced on everything. In the few open spaces amongst the redwoods, larger swaths of light laid across the ferns and tree trunks in a gold and orange display. Crisp rays cut across the small valley at stark angles in contrast to the deep and dark green of the wood.

A mosquito near my ear awakens me from my dreamy state. I involuntarily wave it off. Aware that for some great span of time, I have not even taken a breath, too immersed to be bothered with such a trivial thing as breathing. Then I do.

Quickly, I put my undrunk water bottle aside and my only purpose now is to see if I can in some way photograph this scene for others to view. How could anyone not be spell bound by such a view? How fortunate am I to be here, clambering over hill and dale? I know I am fortunate.

So, I have this here for you all and I invite you to take a few minutes and quiet your mind and heart from the important work you are engaged in and spend a moment getting lost. Gaze awhile at the intricate vastness of the wilderness. I am convinced there is nothing more grand or healing than a moment looking deep into the wild. When I allow myself this moment, incredible things can be seen. Often I can’t describe what it is that I see, but I know deep down that I do see. Without fail, I feel renewed, restored, and rejuvenated. I don’t know about you, but I could certainly use a little rejuvenation in this season of life.

Peace, my friends.

My vision was so different from what actually happened. I know I should never be surprised at this, but I am nonetheless. You would think by now I would have this figured out, but apparently I have not. It’s OK, though. In some ways I think I like being surprised that what actually happened is not how I thought it might be.

We are experiencing a bit of a lull in snow this February and I had it on pretty good authority that the snows were pretty much gone up near where I wanted to take a hike. The drive is about an hour and a half from my house and when I got to the road that led to the trailhead, it was still covered in snow. I say snow, but what I mean is compacted snow that has melted and refrozen countless times into a turbulent sheet of crunchy ice. Clear car tracks led the way over the unpaved road, so I thought, well, why not give it a try? Others have done this, obviously. I plunged my little commuter car forward and the car quickly settled into the icy tracks of those who had gone before me. I cringed just a bit each time my car bottomed out on the snow.

Have you ever had the feeling that what you were doing was likely not going to end well, but maybe, just maybe if you persisted, it might be all right? My gut feeling quickly began to turn to a sinking feeling. I wasn’t sure I could even get out of these icy snow ruts. However, apparently tossing caution to the wind, I pressed on.

Quite a ways into my, what I would now call, insane idea, I saw a large Ford pickup coming the other way. There was no getting off these snow ruts. I slowed and tried to get my car to get up on the edge a bit. Maybe we could squeak by each other somehow? I knew it was more likely that one of us would need to back out.

The pickup driver did the same and edged his rig out of the tracks. Because of the four wheel drive of his truck, I was feeling like he would be able to skirt around me. Of course we realized in about 30 seconds this wasn’t going to work as he suddenly found himself stuck on the ice. Not one of his wheels could get traction. Just a lot of spinning.

Thinking how upset this guy was going to be with me, I got out of my car and began apologizing for the situation. He very quickly met me with a smile and said it was not a problem at all. He would put his chains on and be out in a jiffy. I offered a hand and he said it was no big deal.

What a great guy. We chatted for a minute and then he proceeded to chain up. I then realized that my next task was to figure out how my slippery little car was going to overcome the situation. Hmmm. Full-sized pickup with off road tires and four-wheel drive is stuck. My little commuter car with low ground clearance. Not looking good.

I decided the moment was now to get back out while I could. I am sure I was at least a half mile in, maybe more. There was no possibility of turning around. I would need to back out. Fortunately, my little car does have all wheel drive, so that would help a bit. And, it seemed logical that if I was able to get this far without getting stuck I should be able to do the reverse, too.

Slipping my care into reverse, I twisted my torso around, looked out the back window and went for it. Stepping on the gas pedal, I began slowly undoing what I had just done. Eventually, I made my way around the bend and back onto the paved road that was clear and free from the snow-ice. Whew! I feel like I dodged a pretty decent-sized bullet on that one.

But I really wanted to get a hike in and I was hoping to get to the river and see what might be available for my camera. I parked the car and thought, I have plenty of time, I’ll just hike down the road and see how far I can get. So, back the way I had just come, this time on foot. And just so we are clear, the ice on the snow was so slippery that the moment I stepped in the car tracks, my feet went right from underneath me and I fell right onto my aspirations. This was going to be more difficult than I thought. But I was determined.

Carefully getting myself back up, I gingerly made my way along the sides of the road on the less icy snow pack. Occasionally my foot would break through the surface ice into the softer snow underneath, sinking up to my knee. Slow going, but steady. Within an hour or so I was down by the river. The light was not great and I tried to make a composition out of what was available, but it just wasn’t working for me. After a while, I decided to make the journey back out, giving myself lots of time. As I was leaving the river area, I was struck by the intense winter sun on the icy snow and the giant crystals that were forming on the surface. The incredible backlighting of the sun made everything glittery and beautiful. Like the midnight sky, all aglow with stars and constellations. A thousand points of light. I liked those much more than the poor water reflections I was trying to get.

The trek wasn’t anything like what I was thinking. I do think that for the most part, misadventures are really just adventures anyway. Mine might be more aptly called mess-adventures. All of them have different elements that need to be problem-solved and overcome. They are a great challenge for the whole body, mind, and soul. Just the kinds of messes that help us be resilient in the rest of our lives. 

Here's to messy adventures. Take care, my friends.

It happened again. I was very intentional in my planning. I went specifically to the river to photograph turbulent winter waters rushing over and about the rocky terrain. The waters that wear down seemingly permanent and jagged rocks into the smooth and rounded stones that now lay before me. I tried to find a subject for my camera–anything! A composition that would express the vigor of the river and the land around it.

The clouds, though light in color, hung heavy over the river. Not rain clouds by any means. These were more like a fog, great tufts of cotton that came and went as they pleased, up and down the valley. 

Chaos was what I was seeing. The chaos of the churning waters. Lifeless bundles of twigs and branches lay strewn about, swept down river and caught against the still rooted brush and trees near and even in the river water. I could feel my frustration grow as I just knew a subject was here–somewhere. I found myself simply taking pictures. Snapping away. My heart was not in any of them and I could not see anything of worth that I was capturing. I already knew I would delete most of them before I even pressed the shutter release.

I would say that most often it is like this, trying to capture the wild nature in a way that is pleasing, or with some emotional connection. The art of composition in the wild is very complex and mostly filled with disappointment. Then my head starts in, “shoulding” on myself. “You should just be happy you are here, in nature!” You shouldn’t force the images, let them come on their own.” “You should…” Well, you get the idea. I am great at getting stuck with lectures to myself. I am grateful no one can see my thinking–they would hear the words of a desperate madman.

I take a breath.

I get my internal dialogue under control and put my camera down. Be still thoughts. Just be here.

I switch off my camera and start to put it away. No worries. I don’t have to get any images today. I had a great day on the river. I do feel refreshed just being here. As I am fiddling with my gear and honestly, still a little disappointed, I turn to start heading back and then I see it. My eyes wander up the mountains behind me. Behind me!

Those white, fog-like clouds are springing up from the hillside in glorious, airy wisps. As if erupting from the very ground, the clouds billow, swirl, and enshroud the trees. And I can just make out other trees higher and higher up. Below the cloud line, the wild bushes and trees are showing brilliant reds and greens in the wetness, glistening and providing a wonderful and sharp contrast to the soft, flowing clouds. My breath is taken away for a spell and I get lost in the scene. How very like life is this sudden turn about?

I find this to be a pattern for me. Is this true for anyone else? The idea that I work to make something happen and all the while the better thing isn’t even part of my vision? When I take a breath and stop searching, I generally find it. Not always, but very often. And, it is usually right near me, just in the opposite direction.

How very like life, indeed.

The fall flames have abruptly cooled. Like a rush, the leaves leapt into their autumn glory. And, like the hottest flame that burns so bright, they quickly expire and fade. Fall itself seemed to have suddenly ignited, shone brilliantly, and now only shares glowing embers of what once was on a few branches. Soon these last remnants will also fade and barren trees, having expended themselves for such a show, take a final breath before the deep hibernation takes hold. A natural death-like slumber, leaving me to wonder, will these giants wake ever again?

Bare branches overhead, heavy with the dew from the early morning fog, drips a single drop on my forehead. Looking around, a misty, watery haze blankets the land offering a cozy comforter over the forest. This feels appropriate for the quiet slumbering of the timber. Dead? Asleep? Resting? My senses show me lifelessness, but my heart knows different. A faith, I think. Faith that things will be reborn, renewed, and restored.

My gaze falls to the oak leaf strewn path before me. The smell of damp is in the air. Something else, too. The dirt. Yes, the dirt smells of the damp leaves. Almost like the ash of a campfire, but not quite. This has its own smell of the leaves that once hotly lit up the forest with their glorious fall display and now cool, their fire burned out. A scene quite different now. But all is not lost. Amid the decomposing leaves and grasses, something resists. Pushing, struggling up through the leafen debris.

A mushroom. Soft and delicate and lovely. A uniquely beautiful creation. Enlightened, I now see them everywhere; their short journey of life to reach above the dying chaos all around and stand resolute in the forest floor—alive. An unexpected reminder that all is well and as it should be. None of it in my hands or control. Maybe even despite me, life persists and the beauty of nature abounds in countless cycles of living, dying, and living again. Never the same, but constant in form. This odd little creation reminds me that the past is behind. Whatever it was, it is now gone. And like the fertile ground below, composed of leaves and such, it feeds us and helps us grow. We must push against the dying all about and see the vision of tomorrow. So delicate and fragile is tomorrow, shaped by what happens right now. Tomorrow and tomorrow. 

It seemed the right photo essay to end this 2021 year–whatever it was. Tomorrow is what matters now. Looking ahead is the right thing, but don't forget to look down every now and again. 

Here’s to a bright and resilient tomorrow.

Exploring any woodlands at anytime does something for my soul as much as anything. Even in the quiet of the forest, there is sound everywhere. A beetle feast for woodpecker, rat-a-tat-tatting. The raspy call of an owl. The scurry of leaves beneath from a frog or a chipmunk. Even the wind itself, gently pushing the spired trees back and forth, branches creaking under protest in the movement. I love the sound of the wind here.

I find myself looking up a lot, looking for moments that might be captured on my camera. I stumble on a tree root and catch myself. My right big toe lets me know through my boot that it found something I wasn’t paying attention to. Thank you, the right and honorable big toe, for always telling me the truth. Stopped, I look out across the way. The wilderness is most difficult to make good compositions in because, well, it is wilderness. Life grows where it can and is in constant competition for nutrients and space. There isn’t a gardener specifically planting this here and that there for aesthetic reasons. There is a Gardener, but His secrets are far from my simple understandings. No, I am compelled to look. To work to find the image I am being led to this day. A lesson unto itself perhaps. Patience. I truly enjoy the tension between watching where I am going, exploring deep into the woods, with what I might miss by not looking up. I think there is a life metaphor in there somewhere; somewhere between my stubbed big toe and the scene that is now before me. 

It’s been a while, maybe a 100 years since this forest has seen a fire. Most trees show no sign of burns at all. Occasionally I come up against the remnants of an ancient fire. A giant of a snag that still shows the blackened scars of fire, planted firmly and refusing to give up its space. The hardened and dead wood of so many years ago still stands, a petulant ghost of what it once was. I can just make out the defiant fist in the wood. 

But in this moment, I breathe in the heavily scented woodland air—clean and full of life. The forest is thick here causing the undergrowth to be quite dark. Looking across the ravine I am struck by a brilliant light, another kind of flame, one that is full of life and cool to the touch. A shaft of light dances through the massive treetops and casts its flame on the boughs of a nearby redwood. The branches light up on the beam in stark contrast to the deep greens that surround it. I am compelled to gaze. The branches and needles shine brightly and are not green at all! Just like actual flames, the swaying branches catch and cast the light. Flickering this way and that. I can gaze into a campfire for hours and I am just as caught by this moment. Mesmerized. 

In what I would consider a most feeble attempt to capture such joy, I quickly set up my camera and wait for the right moment. 

Hardly audible, my camera shutter clicks and suddenly this scene is now resting within my camera, waiting to be pulled out and shared. I know the image can’t replace the moment when I encountered it. But when I see it later on, I am drawn right back to these young redwoods, fir trees, and fern undergrowth. Right back to this moment when the sun pierced the forest canopy, fingers of light dancing across the trees. And the rich and complex smells of a vibrant forest, too. The chattering of a squirrel warning others of my presence. I look at the scene and am reminded that I am a guest in these wilds. I am the disturber of peace here. But there is no place that I would rather be. I am consumed by such beauty and life, another kind of fire burning from within me. 

The light shifts and the tree branch flames turn to glowing ambers. The moment has passed. I look down at my boots. The forest floor is carpeted with redwood sorrels. The green leaves seeking those brief moments of sunlight that are rare this deep into the forest. All green with the exception of one. One leaf folded over itself, exposing the fragile underside. What is more striking is the strong shade of purple and the perfect heart shape that it creates. That was unexpected! Like the sunlit boughs across the way, I may be the only one to see this. In a moment, it will all change. Ready for that next wayfarer to experience the forest. 

I can’t believe that heart wasn’t on purpose. Perhaps the Gardener was just here.

I really have no words that could possibly do justice to what I was fortunate enough to experience in  Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah. Perhaps spiritual is the best way for me to describe what happened. Bryce Canyon is remarkably easy to navigate. Other than the long drive, most anyone is able to drive through the park, stopping at each of the viewpoints for a selfie with some of the most spectacular land formations. Riddled with hoodoos (hoodoos are columns of rock and earth that have a much harder "cap" on them that protect them from erosion from the elements, leaving incredible spires all throughout the canyon), spectacular viewpoints can be seen within a couple of hours. However, the area is also full of great hikes for all ages. The National Park Service has done an incredible job creating pathways for those of us who want to get off the highway and explore this backcountry.  I was able to hike between six and twelve miles a day, exploring and photographing landscapes. 

One of the reasons I chose spring to explore Bryce Canyon is to try and capture the landscape with some snow, something I find to be a beautiful contrast to the red, orange, yellow, and tan rock colors. However, it is not for the faint of heart at this time of year; nighttime temperatures dip down to about 15 degrees Fahrenheit. During the day it got up to a balmy 30 or 35 degrees. 

Capturing landscapes like these often means getting up several hours before dawn and hiking to the location where I think there is a good composition. Most mornings there were wind gusts strong enough to knock me over--and yes, the wind chill meant I often could not feel my hands after a short while, despite heavy outdoor winter clothing. Bryce Canyon sits at about 8,000 feet, slipping upwards of 9,000 for various peaks. So, not only is air a lot different, hiking can be that more much more strenuous at such an altitude.

Hopefully, you will agree with me that all of that is well worth the effort to capture some of the most remarkable nature scenes. I still am in awe of that Park. The slot canyons images are from nearby Willis Creek. An amazing hike following the creek through numerous narrows. Willis Creek is about an hour drive from Bryce Canyon. I also visited Kodachrome State Park which was a spectacular day.   

Again, I hope you enjoy looking at some of the images. There are definitely stories and poems to follow. For now, I just don't have the right words to express well this amazing area and adventure. 

Peace, 

Todd 

Not boulders. I’m back in third grade—it’s marbles!

Of sacks of stacks of baubles.

Odd, I haven’t thought of those in years.

Precious treasures, my prized spheres.

Playground competitions, clacked and smacked together.

Steelie gone! “No!” My prized, polished orb. “Best of three?” I blather.

Play for fun. Play for keeps. Sometimes a win. Sometimes I lose.

Life’s key lessons played out in the schoolyard blues.

The boulders before me, all stacked and tumbly.

Moss and frost covered. A clutter all jumbly.

Like my bags of marbles those many years ago.

Ancient and patient, still waiting for Godot.

Carpeted in velvet, like an Irish cream cheese frosting.

A mountain-sized croquembouche, carelessly stacked and bobbling.

Or, giant scoops of ice-cream, piled higher and higher

Of mouthwatering goodness on a sundae pyre.

What a funny train of thought.

My silly brain conjuring up such things to wrought.

From marbles to boulders and of sweets to munch.

What a laugh. I think it is really just time for lunch!  

Rain. Not generally the best for hiking. Well, it was raining in the valley, but “maybe snow at higher elevations?” I try to convince myself. I can do snow and, you never know unless you try. Everyone is asleep. I tiptoe about the still house getting my gear and making sure I am prepared for whatever mother nature has to offer. I drive off into the dark, wet world.

At the trailhead, the temperature hovers around 32 degrees. Snow is falling and the woodland sounds begin to dampen like only snow can do, deadening and muffling the life that scurries and scrounges for daily sustenance. Covered up for the long winter’s nap. I suddenly find it odd that the image of a blanket of snow makes me happy and that I think about being warmly tucked into bed. It is such a paradox that I apparently accept. There isn’t much snow actually on the ground. Sort of in patches. Under the giants, no snow at all, it’s caught in their high boughs—one hundred, two hundred feet towering above me. I look up and blink as snowflakes land on my face and eyelashes. Why does that make me grin?

I press on. The trail is mostly easy to follow. The light snow beginning to cover yesterday’s tracks. The river to my left boils and bubbles in its wintry rush. So much water. Pausing, I watch the spectacle of the dancing waves dipping and swaying to some eternal song. Ancient enough, I cannot hear the tune, but somehow I know it is there. In the same way, I also feel that I am looking for something on this trail. Something I am missing. A rogue wave splashes on the dance floor, refocusing me from my gaze. I step back onto the trail. Crunch, crunch in the wet and heavy snow.

The forest is still dark in the early morning. The laden gray sky is heavy with the falling snow; so much so that in some places the sky reaches all the way down to us, just clipping the treetops. There is not really any breeze, just the quiet of the snow against the river sounds. No bird calls. No scurrying chipmunks or squirrels. Everyone is resting. Waiting for the winter to pass. Nature, seemingly frozen, knows it is getting close. Even as it snows, I can sense everything is ready to sit up and stretch. To jump into spring when life is green and teeming. I walk on.

After a few ups and downs of the trail, my legs complain about being asked to do this work (“Remember bed”? they whine) and one interesting sudden slip on a steep part on partially frozen mud—my senses sharpen—stay on your guard, you are in nature. Nothing is guaranteed. I pause again. Catch my breath. This time, my eyes are drawn to a saintly scene deeper into the wood. Snow on the forest flow is intermittent. Where the canopy above is open, and as if a chef has gently sifted powdered sugar, a light dusting of snow settles on the boughs of young trees. More than just seedlings now, these young stars of tomorrow sit patiently, heads bowed. Calm in the snowy moment.

I am drawn to this scene. Why is it so holy to me? A rush of peace strikes me. I am awash with it, like being struck by a wave on the beach. It engulfs me and reaches deep down. I hear myself breathe out. I don’t remember breathing in, but I can hear the deep breath out. That’s the piece I was looking for. Right here in the woods under ancient cedars and firs. These little ones, covered in a sugar coating of snow in the midst, sway ever so gently. Like the music I cannot hear of the river dance.

My Thoreau comes back to me. “I went into the woods to live deliberately,” he writes. To transcend this life’s experience to something else. Something that is hard to describe, but is. Things I cannot see, that I cannot hear, but are and do. Such apparitions are present in this forest temple. Contemplative tree monks, bowing boughs, and my cup simply runs over. That was it.

Don’t ask me to say what it is. I can only describe how it makes me feel. That by expending energy to be here in the forest restores me in deep and abiding ways. Thoughts of family come to mind. I have been away too long. Time to return and share my pilgrimage to the forest temple. Of a heart renewed and a spirit lifted. I didn’t even know I was missing something until I got here. I get so easily lost in the middle of daily life that is filled with people and action. But out here with no one around, I sit in this unseen temple and listen to the silent chorus and am found. Now I hear myself breathe in. Deep and restoring. Yes, there it is.

My Thoreau comes back to me. “I went into the woods to live deliberately,” he writes. To transcend this life’s experience to something else. Something that is hard to describe, but is. Things I cannot see, that I cannot hear, but are and do. Such apparitions are present in this forest temple. Contemplative tree monks, bowing boughs and my cup simply runs over. That was it.

Don’t ask me to say what it is. I can only describe it makes me feel. That by expending energy to be here in the forest restores me in deep and abiding ways. Thoughts of family come to mind. I have been away too long. Time to return and share my pilgrimage to the forest temple. Of a heart renewed and a spirit lifted. I didn’t even know I was missing something until I got here. I get lost in the middle of daily life that is filled with people and action. But out here with no one around, I sit in this unseen temple and listen to the silent chorus and am found. Now I hear myself breathe in. Deep and restoring. Yes, there it is.

A green dream grows, masked under a frozen shroud

Anxious under howling winds and clouds

Like some lifeless and forgotten relic.

Trapped in the eternal night seeming almost tragic.

Yet under this frozen snow veil, a subtle chime.  

The soul, everpresent, stirs in its time

Leans in against the cold and barren night.

This sleep will pass. Patience under moonlight.

All in nature’s time. God’s timing, really.

Quiet now. Rest. Repose. It’s OK to just be.

Be lost between waking and sleeping. Sweet dreams

Of the sun! Such warmth, melting away moonbeams.

Poised now, this prolonged moment is waning.

Look to the East. It lights. The new day breaking!

Breaking, yes! Hope restored in the frigid midwinter.

Dawn’s fire ignites and brings with it brighter weather.

Like a green dream, spring comes—however slowly.

Each day reminding of promises from the Holy.

Each crafted season ebbs and our stories unfold.

And dreams for things to come are worthy to behold.

A terrific morning for a hike in the woods. To the trailhead I ascend, gusty winds buffet my car as I slide my way up the gravel road, now covered in ice and snow. My little rig is grateful for the previous travelers whose bigrigs created tracks for me to fall in line. The passable road ends. I park.

Assembling myself for a frigid adventure, I layer up and put my gators on around my lower legs to keep the snow out. As I wrestle with these odd articles, I chastise myself for not throwing in the snowshoes—“How hard would that have been, really?” Last gator on. “It is Sunday,” I console myself. “And, I don’t think anyone else got up this early. Self, give yourself a break.” I do. “Bring them next time.” A shiver runs up and down my spine. “OK, it’s cold,” I start.

I am suddenly aware of how quiet it is. The snow dampens all sounds save the wind coursing through the mountain firs and pines. A stamp of my feet on the packed snow and I grab my backpack and head up the road. I am not sure how far the trailhead to Pilot Rock is from here, but I think I am more excited about simply getting out and being in the wild; I am focused on the journey. Plus, it is deep enough snow I need to watch where I am going.

Predecessors are such a great thing, right? Sinking to my knees with each step, I notice several other tracks: cross country skis, snowshoes (someone smarter than me!), another set of footprints (poor soul), periodically a deer, and less frequent, a hare. Stepping into the snowshoe tracks, I rise up on top of the snow. Ah! This is more like it.

Dawn begins. The stars, tired from their long night of twinkling, blink their last and disappear into the day. My eyes hardly notice the transition it is so subtle. First inklike, then navy, then cobalt. The deep darkness fading and fading to light. Gray-blue now, the wintry sky, excited for what the new day will hold, sits up and tosses tufts of cotton about. The sun, still too early to be seen, pulls the covers up tighter. Snuggling down and as if to pacify us, with a wave of his fiery arm, he colors the tufts in a spectrum of color, muttering, “Enjoy that now while papa sleeps just a little bit more.” I do.

I pause to watch the colors change in the clouds. They are moving fast up above! Sudden bursts of wind push against me, too. I keep moving to warm myself up, my toes letting me know they are not standing on a warm sandy beach and are beginning to whine about not being consulted before adventuring out. I ignore them and step further up the mountainside. Just my crunching footsteps and the ever-present wind in the trees. The sun reluctantly pulls himself up over the horizon and the snow brightens. I find my rhythm in the march, until a look off to the side and see a magical, if not unique creation. Something I have not experienced before.

Three beautifully crafted wheels of snow—snow wheels! Their tracks still quite visible from the embankment above. However they got their start, down the hill they went, grabbing snow and growing until the ride was over. They get one shot at such a wonderful event. Once started, the ride just goes. No turning back. No second chances. Like a roller coaster that ends too quickly—don’t they all end too quickly?

Delicate and in varying sizes, their paths look pretty fresh. These wheels are not very old. I am aware that I may be the only person to see these little guys. The snow is starting to fall more heavily; I may be the only person to see them, period. At this rate, they will soon become part of the snowpack.

Something stirs deeper down. I am aware of my fragility. I am aware that I am on that ride down the hill, too. It is all happening so fast, this life. So many memories burst in to view—all of them seem “like yesterday.” Swirling in an endless moment I get lost. But just for a moment. My toes. Yes, my toes remind me that while I am pondering such deepness, they are in fact in something deep, too. It’s called snow and it is not warm. OK, Eeyores. Enough pondering. I wave good-bye to the wheels. How cool is that? On I go.

I feel the weight, long before I see it.

Endlessly falling, the water strikes the boulders below

Tearing and wearing away each rock, bit by bit.

I press on, looking for something I need to know.

This river, this waterfall, so many rivulets combined and collected,

Forming this creature on an endless errand, directed.

Down! Down the valley you must flow. Sometimes in a fury

Like this Fall. Or meandering in quiet streams without a worry.

“Keep on, keep on,” I can almost hear him call.

Dawn breaks! The mist, suddenly alight on bright morning beams

Swirling and dancing up above in new radiant streams.  

The proud eddies transformed from what they have known,

Freed, for the moment, flowing high above the stone,

Trading one current for another.

Wearing his sun-gilded, steaming crown, this king chortles and snorts,

Laughing at some hidden and incomprehensible waterfall joke,

Never tiring of his sport. Rushing, dashing, splashing, continuous contorts.

Childlike, and ancient too, his wisdom expounded in words that cannot be spoke.

Awestruck at his might and power, I am suddenly quite small.  

I draw near. I can feel the mighty Falls eye me carefully.

Not that I matter in this, I think to myself jealously.

These waters will continue to flow. I will be gone. Hardly ever there,

Life—so precious, so quick. “In a blink I will have to move on,” I share.

Time stands quiet now, as if to pause and let me have this perpetual moment.   

Sharply aware of my emptiness. My void, deep and cavern-like is now for show.

The weight of my barrenness overcomes me. There is so much I don’t know.

Patient in this instant. A deep breath now. Drink it in.

Listen. Feel. The air, thick with vaporly spray, I let myself sink in.

Be still.

Feel the Creator’s will.

Like the sun’s rays piercing deep, a new fire burns and my hollows refill.

I matter—of course I do! We do. This moment now filled with gratefulness.

We both are on our journeys, neither of us knowing where they will end.

I am all right with that—not knowing. I regain an uplifting peacefulness.

A kinship we now have, this Falls and I. We keep on moving toward our next bend.  

My journey somewhat ephemeral, his perpetual.

In this moment, I feel the weight now lifted; a long time I have sought after it.

Endlessly falling, these thunderous waters have much to show.

Repairing and mending me, I am renewed from my debit, bit by bit.

I can press on again! Carrying now what I was seeking to know.

Ancient and crumbling rock spires appear through a fence of fir trees. Not long to the end.

I lean into the mountain side. Hands are a must now. ‘Carefully step,’ I think to myself.

I have lost something. My mind wanders as I climb in the dawn. Like a lost book on my shelf.

My eyes wander now, too. There is an ache in my heart. I need to find it before I descend.

Someone sounds an alarm. A bird? No, a squirrel, I think.

It calls, letting others know there is a potential threat nearby. Me, the human in the wood.

A brief pause and then carelessly I tramp on. Branches litter the ground like so much firewood.

The squirrel is right. Me—I am the threat. My careless heart sinks.

A clearing opens up, meadow-like. Lifeless grasses lay flattened in a pattern, as if pushed.

It reminds me of water. That’s it! I look across the clearing and the dead, frozen grasses cascade over rocks to the ravine.

Leaping over one final ridge, a waterfall, too. I can just hear the burble of my river unseen.  

An unmoving grass creek alive in the still of the winter, unrushed.

My own heaving breath lingers on my beard, taking new form—icicle droplets glisten in the morning chill.

A burst of light! Sunrays stretch out through the tree line and I pause to take in the mountaintops.

Having rested a full winter’s night, the sun sits up, wipes the sleep away and peers through treetops.

The sky brightens, yet it is darker, too. Deep blue and purple shadows now mask each hill.

Higher I go, I crawl—up! My heart races. Not for the faint, this part. Keep on, be strong.

I see my former self in the young trees. Like teenagers trying on adulthood, sprouting chin-ly tufts of hair.

Old Man’s Beard on every branch, gently catching the morning breeze all these youthful trees wear.

The textures are intricate. Trunks and branches seemingly chaotic but, ‘look!’ I see it. There is a masterpiece here, a visible love-song.

My mind circles back. What I seek has no name. ‘Have I found anything as I’ve sojourned?’

With my face to the sun, eyes closed, and breathing in. Oh, yes, it has now been returned.

The ground crunches underfoot. The early morning frost gives way to delightful patterns in the dirt and dried sleeping grass. The sound of the river continues its heightened winter burble, sometimes rushing to see what’s round the next corner, sometimes tired and needing to slow down for a spell, and then off again. Endless yet fresh every time.

My path wanders through a patch of blackberry vines that claw at me as I gingerly pick my way through. I prick myself three times. I haven’t seemed to figure this art out. Thankfully I find myself suddenly back on the creek shore. The trees sag just a bit, hanging down and huddling against the cold. The bare branches seem lifeless, but I know what is happening inside. Spring will be here soon enough. I can wait.

A deep breath.

And then the oddest thing. The farthest from my imagination, especially given how far away I am from anywhere. Clearly here to stay, some grand old rig sits defiant, half in the water, half on the shore. Something from the 1930s, 40s, or 50s maybe? Like a pouting child who can’t have what he wants. He sits. I have to take a closer look!

Climbing up through the front window and through the floorboards, a tree has taken root below and holds this old jalopy in place. Unlikely to move now in any river flood. It just sits to become part of the landscape, part of someone’s story and now, part of mine.

No sign of manufacturer. Chrysler? Studebaker? Ford? I can’t tell. Color is, well, also hard to tell. Blue, if I squint my eyes and imagine. Rusting misshapen metal is mostly what remains. Its arms seem crossed. Mad, broken eyes are downcast. Trapped. I think of the prohibition days. Gangsters? Maybe some getaway plan gone wrong? Somebody getting rid of any evidence of…I chuckle out loud at my running imagination and then look quickly to see who else is looking on. No one. Just the leering blackberry vines. Well, it could have been a getaway car. I laugh again.   

Time for me to go. The blackberry lined path is waiting for my return. I bid my new friend farewell. He is here to stay. Transformed over the years to become something else. I am sure I will see other, strange things on my hikes, but this old fellow will certainly be one of the most interesting and most pleasant ironies I have encountered.