THE SEARCH FOR SOLITUDE

It is just past dawn.  I sit with my back against the cool smoothness of a large picturesque bolder. Dangling blue bells of Campanula rotundifolia surround me, entertaining me with their wind dancing on this fine morning.  The Gentian calycosa have not yet awakened, their buds still rolled tightly from the night before.  From my perch near the summit of Silver Star Mountian, I view a scene from an ancient Japanese painting.  Massive shapes are all around me - hills beyond hills beyond hills.  Early morning shadows playing upon them, shifting mist nestling in the crevices, creeping across the landscape below. Three snow capped volcanoes stud the skyline.  I am amongst giants.  I am at the top of the world. I am alone. It is more than I can handle.  I drink it in. 

It is wonderful to be alone.  The greater ‘Portland/Vancouver Area’ lies somewhere far below. To the south, I catch a glimpse of the meandering shiny strip that is the Columbia River.  I know that masses of humanity are on the move, starting the day, bombarding the atmosphere with noise and traffic and the hustle bustle of everyday life - so much noise, so many people.  But I cannot criticize.  If I were not here I would be there.  I have escaped, if only for a few hours.  It is deliciously quiet up here.  I treasure it. Silence is a rare commodity, and becoming harder to find.  Most of us would agree that there are too many people, but no one seems to want to give up their own spot. So, what are we to do?

There is power in the mountains.  Mt. St. Helens is a gentle reminder of the power that is there.  It is important to me somehow.  It all seems so still, but I know it is moving silently in a motion so slow that we cannot perceive it.  To paraphrase a memorable line from a song out of my flower child past, an obscure group called ‘Pearls Before Swine’ sang dreamily, ‘When asked to write words always true, they replied, ‘these things too shall pass away.”  The mountain appear timeless, but they aren’t really. They are alive, they are everchanging, they have a life span.  Can we ever truly comprehend the life of a redwood, or a mountain range, a crystal foming in the depths below, or star light finally making it’s way to earth after millions of light years?  I try to keep this perspective as I amble through life, sometimes rambling, sometimes scambling.

My thoughts shift from the milleniums of milleniums that created the scene of today, to the wildflowers that now seem so fleeting that we dare not blink or we will miss them. They all have their place, as do we among them.  We are but a piece of the puzzle, with more power than is good for us.  Higher intelligence and opposable thumbs come with a price.  Let us use them wisely.

I am now in that peculiar and enjoyable state of conciousness that overtakes me in these situations.  My sense of times come unglued.  Have I been here one hour, or four hours?  I am regenerated.  I pack up my stuff and head down the path.  Real life calls, and I have work to do, but for a few hours I have been able to absorb a bit of the power and gentleness of the life force that connects us all.  

As I reluctanly leave my solitary post, I see that the Gentians have begun to unfurl their buds to the warmth of the day. 

Life goes on.

   (August 7, 1994)

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SPIRITS OF THE COLUMBIA 

As the Cascade Mountains cross the mighty Columbia River, they bow to let me pass through this most glorious of gorges.  And, as it happens, on this day, it is also host  to a meeting of spirits from far and wide. Taking the shape of mists, masquerading as clouds, they settle themselves into every conceivable dip and hollow of these imposing peaks that surround me, for 20 miles or more.  All seats are taken in this grand open air auditorium, and as I drive, I am keenly aware - do they know that I know, as they curl phantomlike around the towering trees and the jutting rocks, the humans below them just a blink in time, mere ants, skittering around, getting the job done? Do they notice? Do they care?

The rain keeps falling, lightly, mistily, a perfect foil for this spirit meeting, as I reach the other side of the mountains and enter the rainshadow. Yes, still gray above, but warm, and at least no water is falling on my head as I amble through the meadows of Sisyrincium douglasii, for hours, their satiny purple heads drooping with the heaviness of moisture, but perfect nonetheless. There are hundreds of thousands of sisyrinchiums - on every ridge, in every wet hollow.  I stay until it is almost dark.  It is my favorite time of day -  I love the changes in the air, the birds singing their evening songs - I can feel the turning of the earth. I don’t want to leave, there are so many sisyrinchiums yet to see, but I need to start back while I can still see the mountains.

The meeting is still in progress. Some of the participants have gone - they have dissipated their misty forms and have returned to another dimension.  But some have merged and are now dancing in one large illusive mass over the waters of the great Columbia, connecting one side with the other, as darkness falls - it is quite the sight.  I am indeed privileged to be witness to this great spectacle.  Do others see it as I do? Can they see through the masquerade?

And the last hour, in the dark, I drive in pure pleasure, almost alone on this narrow winding road that I know so well, with the strange and wrenching music of Tom Waits as my cassette companion.  A perfect afternoon. An exceptional solitary experience. Now just a memory.

(March 17, 1997)

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 MOUNTAIN MOONRISE

From our front row seat, nestled in the reeds on the edge of this high mountain lake amphitheatre, we wait. Mt. Adams looms huge behind us, but hidden now, in the dark, with only starlight to play on the slopes.  Ahead, a full moon rising, infusing the thick billows of clouds that are rolling on the horizon with an eerie orange glow. The clouds move swiftly, flinging streamers of mist, like giant ghost fingers reaching for another dimension, changing constantly, black grey interweaving, looking like smoke from a distant fire, coming closer, then receding - the tension is great, the wait is long, as finally the giant orange ball emerges, peeking through the spires of trees, shining like the sun at night, shining like no moon should ever shine. Slowly it creeps higher, silhouetting the spires, mirroring itself on the black satin water - an experience no words can truly tell, no camera could ever capture. It takes our breath away.  

(August 20, 1997  -  10:00 P.M.)