— [from when buckles meant 100 miles] —
—– [sort of: you have lots of time to get this done] —–
The only question people outside of the ultrarunning family know to ask is, “Have you done (a) Western or (b) Leadville?” Those two have been on national television. A few outsiders might know of Badwater (not the original). I was buying a pair of trail shoes and someone asked the question sequence. “Do you run ultramarathons?” “Yes.” “Have you done the Western States 100?” Hmmmm, “No.” End of conversation–probably a good thing. I love running, talking about running, or writing about running—probably boring to outsiders.
I thought on this as I pedaled home. My ego was bruised. I once won a 100 km run. The local newspaper editor killed the interview/story because he “knew” no one could run that far. I set a masters’ course record for 50 miles, but was second overall; thus was not the “winner”. I won a 34.5 mile whatsit, but the response is often, “Why the weird distance?” All my credentials, if indeed, that is what they are, were lacking. I had long ago failed the “serious runner” exam by enjoying runs–by “sacrificing the gift” and not going all out at every gathering.
At age 57 I tucked tail, ran here and there in the Willamette Valley of Oregon all through spring and part of the summer, and then went to Leadville. I ran for a while; 27:13:41 (might, or might not, be close), got a hug from Merrilee, an old fashioned handshake from Ken, a finisher’s sweatshirt, and a buckle.
Where was I running? Why did I pause? Which pause led to a question? Which question had no immediate answer? What was the first book purchased because of a “pause point”? These were the questions that formed the basis for today’s internal conversation as I ran.
I started running as a release from some problems at work–daily behavior and conversations that lead to what I now know as psychological violence. The cool morning air veiled me in an hour of solitude that was the release, the escape, the magic carpet–the gift that would become part of my life. The first few weeks, maybe as many as eight or ten, the running was a mechanical release with only the barest knowledge–I was running about an hour. There was no more knowledge needed.
The mechanical curiosity of “Can I run a 10k?” came and went. I can look at the inside cover of the first running book to see when the questions about running started being answered. February 23, 1985 is the date of my first marathon. All questions now created by running revolved around pace and training. April 13th a few more questions, still centered on pace, some about heat and hydration were answered as I ran my second marathon. Three weeks later I was at the starting line of the Avenue of the Giants Marathon. A shift was about to happen.
I ran with eyes turned upward. I ran, almost pirouetting as I went, with no regard for pace. I don’t think I actually stopped while on the course. I can clearly recall slowing too much for some runners. It was the first marathon I felt was done with little conscious discipline. I turned where a race official said to, but other than that the “Giants”, those huge, majestic, and ancient trees took all my attention. The next day I walked amongst them. No answers were being sought. I just walked beneath those huge branches a hundred feet and more above me. That was enough–no questions seemed to call. I drove home.
As spring turned to summer, my running routes slowly became the trails I stumbled across. The quiet was there. The voices stilled. The running was less structured. The running library had competition from Edward Abbey and Aldo Leopold. The Monkey Wrench Gang competed with Catton’s Overshoot as my feet found Capitol Forest; a multiple-use forest a few miles west of Olympia. I also know that the different tree barks, needles, cones, and silhouettes were not yet asking me to stop and see what I was passing through.
A month free from pay-to-run runs let me think more about the where and what; that led to the ‘ologies—biology, geology, climatology, criminology, dendrology, ecology, meteorology, metrology, glaciology, lithology, nephology, orology, selenology…
The rocks at my feet or in the nearby Cascades needed to be seen. The wind that whispered or roared and pushed the rising and falling tides and moved the morning fog to where is should be begged of learning. The glacier was once over a mile thick here—that thought should cause you to stop and look up.
The ‘ologies came calling as the trails and seasons changed.
Scribbled notes were attached to the cobwebs of my mind. They were put there with no particular purpose. They come back with a simple, “Do you remember…” inserted into a conversation. I need to see more of what I pass through. I cannot do that when racing. What if I were out longer than a day? What if what I saw went from a few things to many and I did not keep notes?
They weren’t notes, not notes as we kept in school. They were notes made on the scratchpad in my mind from standing in front of a tree staring at the bark, at the leaves (even learning to see “needles” as leaves was a learning point). The forests detracts from the rocks, from the sky, from the trail. They demand. They command. A giant redwood on the Aptos No Creek Marathon stood at a switchback and its presence caused me to skid to a stop. The idea of a sub4-hour trail marathon vanished; gone. My eyes went upward. My neck craned. I paused to wonder… how old, how tall, how long have you waited. A book was needed.
That could be it. The redwoods hold a special place in my heart, but in the Pacific Northwest they have a surrogate, the Western Redcedar. The redwoods are two state lines south. The cedars are around me almost every run. Do I have more books about trees than books about other things?
No. In a totally invalid statistical study I removed (randomly) ten books from the shelves that are never completely organized. There are no books about trees to be seen in the stack–not a one. There are two books about running. There is a book about tides. Tides, as surely as trees, have caused many pauses.
Tides and ships and fog are part of our life on the island, but I did not live here when the running-driven book collection started. I looked at the books. The book about Death Valley was bought after one of our trips when we camped and ran there–a singleton. Unseen in the picture are the three books about ravens that were next to Matthiesssen and Hutto’s books.
It could easily have been ravens, or a single raven, that finally forced the needed learning, haphazard and random as it may be, to start. Birds are ever present. They are barely visible high above and clearly heard under the brush at my feet. Birds are large, small, skittish and quick to flight or bold and full of curiosity. They tell of seasons changing–with some luck and blind trust they can be used as a compass. Ravens or owls or all the birds I have seen or ever will encounter? Could one more book selection (randomness of the draw guaranteed) tell me?
No. The only clues offered from these six would be of the eclectic nature of the reading in this house. A last resort is to seek assistance from the local research center.
“Do you remember the first book I bought because of pausing on a run, or why?”
“Owls, you bought a book because of an owl in Capitol Forest–on the trail near Wedekind.”
Owls? Yes, that would work. We watch migrating birds high overhead. We see an eagle, seldom up close, and it often flies before we are through looking. Quail are skittish and gone to the bush before truly seen. Owls, thank goodness, are curious. They wait to see what you are doing. One watched me as I changed bottles one day. An owl can cause me to stop and sit–the sudden stillness on one or two occasions caused a slow descent on the branches as it watched me for sudden movement. They are large, medium, or small. The live in trees or in burrows. They are beautiful in the silence of their movement. Yes, an owl seen on a run could cause a pause that would pique the curiosity that would lead to buying a book not related to running.
August 10th of 1991, my mother’s 79th birthday. The first birthday I was near enough to visit in several, perhaps many, years. The 10th was on a Saturday. Kathy and I were in grad school at the University of Arkansas and neither of us had classes on Friday; coupled with Monday’s schedule we had a three and a half day weekend. I called mom telling here we would be down Thursday evening and to pack for a weekend trip. She was always ready to travel.
We went down into southern Arkansas, farms and pines, a small town here and there. Mom was a steady stream of historical comments. She was born in 1912. She was the first in her family, son or daughter, to go beyond the eighth grade. She went to St. Vincent’s Infirmary in Little Rock, Arkansas and became a nurse — a Registered Nurse, an RN; the kind that had a funny-shaped piece of starched cloth that she would fold just so and–Presto! She had her nurse’s cap. What I have long wished I had was her knowledge of plants and trees. She would combine her professional knowledge with some pieces of ground up “weeds” to make an ointment, a salve, a poultice. She made me a toothbrush from a Sweet Gum tree once. Now she was looking into the woods along the road as we drove I do not know where.
“Slow down,” she said as we drove down a shade-darkened dirt road. Kathy and I looked at the gigantic cottonwood trees and tall grasses alongside the road. We wondered what was on her 79-year-old mind. “Stop,” she said, “Yes, here,” added as if she could read my curiosity. She got out. We got out. She walked along the road, head half turned to the trees. She stopped, looked at me, smiling as she said, “Come here.” We followed her. She pointed, smiled again and said, “See the trail?”
“Yes, I could see a trace of a trail.”
We walked a few minutes and came to the edge of the woods. The trace continued along the edge of a recently planted field. She pointed to the next patch of trees a quarter mile or so away, “We would walk along here, then through those trees to school. School was about three miles from home.” The whole mom-is-senile thing vanished. She had taken us home; her home of sixty-five years ago.
We found some old buildings, almost hidden in a willow thicket–brambles and briers had grown into an impassable barrier. We bent and looked in. She said she didn’t think anyone had lived here since 1965–twenty-five years ago. I was sort of sure, but I asked, “Was this home?”
“Yes, this was home for my first fourteen years.” It was quite a voice; a whisper; a cracking with emotion; knowledge all the others are gone. We walked a bit more, but there was no more conversation.
We took two days to get back to where she now lives — not home, just an address; a place to pass time, years and days.
Three months and sixteen days later; five years and fifteen days after my father had died, I got the phone call saying we needed to come to Russellville for another funeral.
Twenty-five years and some have come and gone. We were given that last trip full of history, memories, and parental love.
Mother’s Day — a bittersweet happiness flows forth.
Kitty Hawk was behind us. We entered Virginia and suffered the return to the noise and traffic of well-traveled highways to get to the engineering marvel of the bridge that took us over and under the mouth of Chesapeake Bay on U.S. 13. We wanted breakfast. We wanted out of the traffic. Maryland welcomed us and we resigned ourselves to even more traffic when U.S. 13 junctions with U.S. 50. The mention of us having traveled U.S. 50 near Great Basin National Park on the other side of the country in Nevada was barely noticed. We got something to eat in Salisbury and continued on U.S. 50, eyes peeled for a less-traveled way to work our way north.
Kathy pointed at a sign pointing left, “Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge”. I turned off and we wandered here and there watching for a trail or a dirt road where I could park and we could get out of the car for a few minutes. It was late in September of 1994, most of the creeks, streams, or still backwaters were empty. I saw a wide spot and pulled in. The quiet slowly took over. “Frogs,” was Kathy’s first announcement. Things were still green, fall had not yet taken its grip to shake change; to enforce its presence. Frogs of several voices croaked and rumbled and remained hidden. Song-makers took over as we sat in the grass and ate who-knows-how-many-days-old sandwiches. I finished my sandwich, got up and walked a few steps toward a long deserted dirt road. I noticed a sign barely sticking out of the tall grasses of the marsh.
Kathy will know. I know she will. “Who was Harriet Tubman?”
“Oh, many things, depending on her age. Slave, escaped slave, abolitionist, one of, I suppose major persons, the Underground Railroad people.” Kathy was on the other side of the car, still sitting on the grass warmed by an afternoon’s sun. “Why?”
“She was born near here. Down that way, I think.”
We walked a bit here and there, found a few houses that looked to be in various states of restoration–materials here and there as if it was an interrupted project. I suggested it was an ongoing job, probably volunteers since there was no sign of officialdom.
No highway noise made it this far. The quiet and the aged buildings slowed our looking in dust-covered windows. Water crossed the dirt road a hundred yards down the way toward some other buildings; buildings more dilapidated than the ones we first saw. We could put only the vaguest of dates here. She was an adult during the Civil War. I guessed at 175 years old. That would be another reason for the slowness of the restoration–historically correct work would be slow–painstakingly slow if a person cared–and looking at the work completed I thought craftsmanship and pride was here.
We walked along a game trail to the paved road and turned toward the car. An hour and more had passed and no one had passed. The noise and bustle of the morning has gone from our minds. “Greenbrier Road,” Kathy pointed. “No house numbers,” I offered. An abstraction of when numbers became needed in addresses followed as we got to the car. I was just about to say something about which way might be shortest way back to U.S. 50. We did need to get to Annapolis. An old pick-up was rattling its way, not much faster than walking pace, toward us. I waved and an old black man, the driver, waved back. An old black woman smiled from the far side of the seat as they stopped. “Good afternoon,” I said.
There is a distraction of watching when listening to old people talk. They think with ‘most every word. “‘Afternoon,” he nodded. I asked how to get back to the highway. The woman leaned toward me and asked, “Cambridge?” I heard Kathy say yes. I turned. She was at the car and had the map in her hand, “Yes, Cambridge.” He pointed ahead and told me, “About a half mile down there, turn right. It’s a few miles to town,” then turned to her. She nodded and smiled in agreement. A half hour later we were back on U.S. 50.
Somewhere in a box are some slides from that trip in 1994. We were on our usual not-quite-direct method of travel returning to the Pacific Northwest from Arkansas. Arkansas was two weeks behind us. That part of the world we call home was some unknown time in front of us. We still stop here and there and are often rewarded with signs almost hidden by tall grasses and history that we need to see and think about.
I think it was my 55th birthday when I last ran my age in miles. In that 55th year I was first overall at Daybreak’s Climb a Mountain 34.5 mile run to the top of Mt. Spokane–complete with a son pedaling nearby and grandchildren cheering.
I touched 70 km, give or take who knows what on my 70th birthday. In that 70th year I completed Le Grizz in 10:19:16 — it seemed a reasonable goal (actually, it was a failure in confidence–analysis on the way home fully indicated I should have believed in the subten-hour fifty-mile run being there).
The 74th birthday approached and I gave some thought to this 31st year of running. I am happy to run without paying for it, but some goal ought to accompany one or two days of the year. I parked the car; turned to the trailhead, then paused… aha? Aha! I returned to the car, took my watch off and laid in on the seat, face up. I started down the trail.
I ran some. I jogged some. I leaped two small puddles, with no noted grace. I ran up two short hills. I had to check a map, not wanting to end up back at the car “too” soon. I let a horsey person look at my map. I ran down a hill and smiled at a minor triumph. The first bottle was emptied some time ago. I looked at the half empty second bottle and looked at the map for a not-quite-direct route to the car. One voice was hoping for two hours. Two hours with no camera to provide rest points would be a nice reward. Disbelief led me to turn away for one last addition in time. The next junction put me on a wide trail, no horses had chewed up the ground here–I emptied the second bottle. A voice long quieted whispered, “Time to run.” The dancing hippos smiled and ran with me to the car. Ego led me to look in the window at my watch 2:14:37 … 37 is half of 74 and that is good enough for a birthday run.
A ten percenter with no thoughts of electioneering whatsoever. The clouds obscure just enough to make the crescent partly a witch’s doing; partly an act of wind, humidity, and ravens. I shivered. It is too cold to sit on the steps and attempt to take a picture. I could go get the tripod for the needed stillness, but one cloud or another works against me and the only bit of sureness comes from the left. Sirius went away, obscured by clouds, in the few minutes I had stood there. The next skirmish line of the meteorological oscillation known as El Niño is on the way.
Sirius is that low? Vernal equinox is next week–next Saturday at about 9:30 p.m. PDT here in the Pacific Northwest. It doesn’t seem that long ago that the excitement over finding the Pleiades before midnight caused Kathy to come running in to say “they’re back!” They, in this household, are the Seven Sisters–we once knew all seven names–hot blue bits of brilliance barely a 100 million years old, projected to vanish in another 250 million years. They, the Seven Sisters of Greek mythology, are Sterope, Merope, Electra, Maia, Taygeta, Celaeno, and Alcyone, along with their parents, Atlas and Pleione form the nine brightest stars of the Pleiades.
A more romantic and imaginative name is Messier 45, or, simply, M45.
Equinox approaches and The Pleiades, Orion, and Sirius will vanish from our night sky. Other years would have found us going to Oregon’s high desert, to a place with no lights for one last night sky show. We might have found the same dirt road twice. We don’t know. We know that night, ‘long about midnight, one of us would raise the tent flap and check for a clear sky–then wake the other with the whispered, “They’re out.” Layers would be pulled on. The tent had been pitched with south in mind. A blanket, folded and placed near the flap was spread on the cold sand. Some giggling ensued. On a cold desert floor with no real need for binoculars but some pointing, as if to assure identification of, and connection to, the ‘Sisters, then to Orion, then to Sirius.
A hundred million years ago.
Only 250 million years to go.
Sterope, Merope, Electra, Maia, Taygeta, Celaeno, Alcyone, Atlas, and Pleione–each pointed to and acknowledged as old bones grow cold on a late winter’s night somewhere southeast of Bend.
Running influences my reading just as reading influences my running. These five books written by — Terry Tempest Williams — fit very well with open spaces, running, and things real or imagined as we see where we are.
What had woke me? Whatever it was, something had told me to look at my watch from inside the sleeping bag so the light would not show outside the tent. What woke me? I laid there, involuntarily unwilling to relax. There! That! My breath went quietly shallow as I listened to the scuffle of gravel near the tent. Seconds later there was another scuffling shuffling sound. I guessed it to be the sound of a paw of some animal–a large animal–passing in these early hours of morning. Then came the sound I immediately knew had pierced my sleepy subconscious. I heard what awoke me.
It was an inhaling, a snorting, a sinus clearing rattle, and an imagined head shaking that all came together to make a noise that said “big!”; followed by another shuffling step or two.
Shuffle. Shuffle. zzhuonghullez… Shuffle… going away… almost inaudible.
“Are you awake,” came the whisper. The sudden shifting of attention let the tension leave and a sudden shivering started. How long had I been frozen in silence. “Yes. Did you hear it?” “Yes, grizzly?” A silent pause as we both listened to the only noise the night air carried. “Sounds like it’s going away.” Pause. “Stopped.” We listened to a scratching and scraping sound; a clang of metal on metal — “It’s checking food lockers to see if any are unlocked.” Silence.
I started feeling around for the flashlights and headlights, shoes, and car keys, as I waited for the next sounds. Part of my mind was picturing where the zippers were–one for the sleeping bag; one for the inside door flap; one for the outside door flap; one for the fly flap–four zippers. Four very loud zippers. The anticipated loudness of zippers in the quiet of the forest brought forth vaudevillian images of creaking floors and stairs and noises in an otherwise quiet night in the Rockies.
“Yes, it had to be a grizzly; nothing else will make that much noise.”
“Do we need to get to the car?”
Faintly—we could hear it again.
Shuffle. Shuffle. zzhuonghullez… Shuffle…
“Coming back.” “Quiet.”
We listened to it pause; listened to its claws scrape the metal of a “bear-proof” food locker; listened to it getting closer. My mind’s eye could see the car, the picnic table, the tent, the thicket, everything except the bear. It moved and now I could track it. It was between the car and the tent. Shuffle. I wondered if Kathy was holding her breath too. Shuffle. Quieter. zzhuon… very close. A second, quieter, sound of breathing; it’s sniffing the air. Oh, please smell some food, a bag of potato chips, anything some fool left on their table way over wherever.
Shuffle. Shuffle. zzhuonghullez… Shuffle…
I started undoing the sleeping bag zipper. I found Kathy’s shoes, pushed them to her, “Get ready.” We paused to listen. We could barely hear the bear. It was still going away. “Pull the flap tight.” The first zipper was unzipped. We paused to hear a welcome silence. The second zipper was unzipped. “Shoes on?” “Yes.” I pulled my shoes on. “I’ll undo the fly, roll out and hold it open. It’s light enough to see the car door. Get a car key in your hand. Get to your door.” “Okay.”
For the first time in ages, the fly zipper did not jam. It unzipped and I was out and standing–looking in the direction I thought Mr. Bear had gone. “C’mon!” The comedy potential of the goofy old couple stiffened from several hours on the ground in the tent on a cold night in October in Montana came to fruition as we “hurried” to the car. The giggling started halfway between the tent and the car. The dome light came on—both a good and a bad thing. Good in its telling me Kathy had her door opened and was getting in. Bad in that it was the only light around—would Mr. Bear be inclined to notice. The light went off. I heard the click as Kathy unlocked my door from inside. I reached the door, started to open it, but, for God only knows what reason, I paused. I suppose a part of my mind said, “If it was near, you would know by now.” I looked around. I held my breath for a few seconds to hear any sound the night had to offer. I heard nothing. I opened the door and got in.
Hi Kathleen. Hi John. How are you? I’m fine. How are you? I’m fine.
I looked at my watch — 3:39:21 — seven minutes? No, easily a lifetime.
Why are you breathing so loud? I thought it was you. It’s too cold to sleep. I know that. You want to flip a coin to see who goes to get the sleeping bags? No.
epilogue: We usually stay in a motel every fourth night. The following day found us staying in Billings, Montana. As soon as we were in the room we connected a laptop to Google. For the next hour or so, certainly more than seven minutes, we listened to animals sounds. We listened to black bears, old and young. We listened to Sun, Polar, Kodiak’s, Alaska Brown, and plain old grizzly bears. At the end of our searching and listening we were sure we had listened to a grizzly as it wandered through the campground way high in the Rockie Mountains near Two Medicine Lake in Montana.
We added “zzhuonghullez” to the spell checker on the laptop and went to bed.
One of the treasures of being old is pausing. The run, walk, camera-trip, whatever today’s trip to the trails was called, was over. We were sitting on the picnic table watching water go by; listening to the bell on the buoy; analyzing the snow on the shoulders of the Olympic Mountains across the strait and, as always, hoping for whales.
A couple walked up from the parking lot, paused, looked here and there, then walked over to the small information sign. I know it as being too faded to be of any real use. They looked at it, glanced here and there, the taller of the two women pointed at us and said to her companion, “Ask the old couple?” Intentionally, or not, it was said loudly enough we could hear. I wondered why it sounded like a question. They came over.
Hello. Hello. Hi. Hello.
Do you know anything about what we are seeing?
Yes, we do.
The never-quite-the-same interactive interpretive talk took place. The Strait of Juan de Fuca; Vancouver Island–yes, that is Canada; the Olympic Mountains; it was a World War II coastal artillery installation; trails–yes, about thirty miles of them; the yellow flowers are Scotch Broom…
Eagle! Kathy pointed and all eyes followed.
Is there a campground? Yes, but it is closed for the winter. Bits and pieces, scraps and fragments of descriptions and questions about trees, trails, a bird or two, and even a conveniently appearing ship were meted out to these two inquisitive women. Is there a short walk we could do… an hourish? A description was given. They got up to leave. The gift of a conversation of exchange was ending. I asked, “And the ‘Ask the old couple?’, where did that come from?”
They both smiled. The tall one said, “At Chiricahua we were thanking a ranger for all the information; telling him our winter trips make information sources scarce.” He told told us if we don’t see a ranger, look for an old couple. If they are local, they will have the time to tell you of “their” park. The short one smiled again, “It hasn’t failed us yet.”
Little things will keep you inside. “Injured” has so many names; damaged, impaired, hurt, harmed, wounded, ruined, and none are conducive to getting you out the door. I’m not injured. I kept telling myself it is just one of those nagging little aches that intrudes into consciousness just enough to worry and distract.
That settled, I headed down the trail–walking and waiting for the first twinge. A quarter mile passed, walk turned to shuffle and off onto Humpty Dumpty, down into the kettles again. Friends and strangers are always in the kettles and the gradual drop to the old cedar is an easy warm-up. Two spotted towhees burst out of the undergrowth, looking like robins in plaid coats, still partly covered with the down that marks them as babies; they spot me and disappear back into their leaf-strewn world.
Just as I make the turn to the big cedar Woody Woodpecker laughter fills the woods. It only takes a few seconds to spot the two pileated woodpeckers, crow-sized, easily the largest of the woodpeckers, their red, white, and black heads bobbing back and forth as they chisel a hole into an aging cedar. On around and down into the hole left by the big ice cube some ten or twelve thousand years ago.
Sometimes speed calls for agility, sometimes a hundred yards of six-foot tall nettles calls for agility…or do I yield to the occasional sadistic pleasure of brushing nettles to wake up tired legs. I look at the old cedar, hidden down here in the bottom. We have guessed it to be six-hundred years old. It is the only old tree down here, alders and ocean spray off to one side, a field of thimbleberries on another, a scattering of wings as this year’s generation of bushtits learn their acrobatics–the ever-still, never-still forest draws me in again.
The distraction of the birds and the rolling zigzags of High Traverse are interrupted by the awakening thought–no pain, no discomfort, no twitchies–of relaxed running. Suddenly aware of everything seeming to function as intended, I change directions and head away from the trailhead, going, instead, to Lake Pondilla. There were two ospreys there last week, not full-time residents, but frequent visitors. And the trail goes through the biggest wild blackberry thicket of the area.
The whole run falls apart as I pull-test a blackberry. If they come off easily, they are (usually) ripe. It practically falls into my hand. The newest aid station of the forest is open. I sacrifice speed for calories–gotta be able to get back to the car, doncha know. A handful or two later and I continue on to Lake Pondilla, where I find school is in session for a family of belted kingfishers. I sit on a stump in the shade and watch as mom, then dad, hovers, dives, gets a fish, goes to perch–then drops the fish back in the lake as if to say, “Now you try it.” The two newest strangers to the lake leave the branch and the Kingfisher Comedy Hour begins. They hover okay. They dive fairly well. They fail to get a fish and appear panic stricken about getting out of the water. The rattling click-click-click from mom and dad scolds and instructs. Eventually a lesson is learned and one of the kids returns to the branch with a meal.
I walk for a few hundred yards up from the lake, the warmth of the afternoon sun feels good as I go from walk to shuffle to run to…well, almost to this-feels-good-and-I-could-run-forever. The waters of Admiralty Passage are touched with whites and blues as the wind from the Straits of Juan de Fuca play with the tidal currents. A freighter with a gazillion tons of resource depletion is outbound. Two kayaks hug the shore, riding the tide back into Puget Sound. The bluff trail is wide and smooth enough to run without worrying about footing–water and mountains pull at the mind as legs and shoulders relax.
The switch-backs and shadows of Cedar Grove wake me up. Roots and turns, vines pulling at sleeves, the climb to the old men is a transition into quiet. The floor is covered with who knows how many hundreds of years of cedar needles. There are a dozen or so trees showing their age, deeply drooping branches, burls and woodpecker holes, trunks twisted and turned from centuries of seeking the sun, and always a raven to scold me for intruding, again. I mutter, “Sorry,” and turn to leave.
The trail finally straightens, then widens. Two hikers at a junction are looking at a map, each pointing in different directions. I pause. Where? Here. Where to? There. Down there, right at the first fork, left at the … at least they had a map. Gravel crunching now, the narrow gravel road has no quiet spots, but it is free of roots and I want to open the stride again, just to check–just to push a bit. It’s effort, not pace, that we want to be comfortable with when on trails. Birds and berries, waves and wind have been acknowledged, now I want to put my mind to running. It is a mile to the car. Old friends and strangers are left behind again as breathing becomes rhythmical and the running on memory returns.