See Chapter 1 for disclaimer.
THE TALE OF MARIAN
Chapter 5: Sea Surface Full of Clouds
22 August
It was a long drive, ten hours at least with numerous stops, and I am
very tired. There were no dog accidents in the car, so I have nothing
of any interest to mail to Jason today.
Bruno and I have settled in at a campground on the beach. I had
intended on staying at a motel, but I am learning that motels that
will take really bid dogs are hard to come by. Perhaps if Bruno had
been a Pekingese we would have fared better. As it is, we will both
be getting rather dirty 24 hours before it would have been inevitable.
I am sure that within a few days I will recall a campground with
showers and toilets as a lost luxury.
I did not pack a real tent, only a ground cloth that will serve in
case of rain. So, I reverted to an old and cherished childhood
practice. I searched out a large log of driftwood high up on the
beach, out of reach of the high tide that will come sometime in the
night. With Bruno's "help", I hollowed out a nice depression in the
sand behind it, on the land-side, that will protect us from wind but
not from the coming dampness. A small fire crackles a few feet away.
The sand is still somewhat warm from the sun, unlike the air, which
has become clammy and cold as the sun sinks lower. At least it is not
too windy tonight; I am not fond of blowing sand, especially when it
gets between my teeth and in my eyes. For all the time that I lived
near the beach as a child, my parents and I never once camped on it at
night. We had bonfires on the beach, fireworks on the beach with
coats and blankets, but we went home afterwards, where it was warm.
Camping on the beach all night was left for tourists who wanted the
unique experience of getting soggy and chilled to the bone.
I wandered down the beach with Bruno to make up for keeping him on a
leash, barefoot and luxuriating in the feel of wet sand shifting
between my toes. He refused to step into the surf like I did. He is
no water dog, so I stayed in the uppermost cold foam edges of the
waves as they rhythmically advanced and receded. We have climbed up
onto a large rock formation that juts out into the water, a suitable
vantage point from which to wait for the sunset. The sun is cold now,
glaring off the water so that I have to squint to write, approaching
the clouds; big fluffy ones hovering near the horizon. It should be a
good sunset. Bruno eyes the surf warily, but with fascination. It is
near low tide, and the sea is relatively calm. As I wait, the
constant movement and thrumming sounds of the surf envelop me. This
familiar deep, hypnotic, steady vibration, like a giant heartbeat, has
comforted me throughout my childhood and many times since. One hardly
notices this constant companion to those who live by the sea until one
moves away and suddenly finds it missing. Closing my eyes, I feel the
strain of the past weeks and months begin to fade away, breaking up in
the presence of this ever-moving, ever-changing life force, the
Pacific. It, and the expanse of sky above, make my personal inner
struggles seem simpler, clearer. I have buried the true extent of the
aching loneliness I have felt since Kevin died and it comes to me
fully now; yet as it does, it is eased for the first time. With the
vastness of a universe almost close enough to reach out and grasp, my
heart reaches out to meet it.
The sun has dipped behind the clouds now, sending vivid shafts of
light down through the gaps between them to glitter like diamonds on
the gray-green, shifting surface, tinting the underside of the clouds
and the backs of the soaring gulls a golden-red, the sky intense
amethyst, aquamarine and turquoise, like a Raphaelite painting in
motion. As the now-red sun dips below the horizon, the sky fades to
darker blues and purples, and it is becoming too dark to write. Bruno
is restless. We must make our way back before it is too dark to see.
There will be stars tonight; I see Venus already, glowing yellow low
in the southwest.
* * * * *
23 August
It is morning, and the sea lions are barking somewhere unseen
offshore. An obscuring bank of fog moved in during the night, and the
air is dense, wet and gray. The foghorn that lulled me to sleep last
night can still be heard, muffled and distant. A far cry from the hot
and dry summer days I have become used to in the foothills, but this
is the weather I grew up with. I know in a few days I will be
comfortable with it again.
Today I will drive up the coast a few more hours, first on paving,
then on a gravel road, to the trailhead I have chosen for its
remoteness and seclusion as much as for its beauty. I will be going
much, much further than I have ever ventured before.
* * * * *
24 August
I did not write last night; a combination of exhaustion from hiking
uphill all day, and misjudging how quickly darkness comes in the
forest. I have done better tonight, stopping in the late afternoon to
seek out a good place to camp.
Yesterday I located the trailhead with some difficulty, finding only a
few cars but no people in sight, and the requisite garbage. It is
beyond me why people who go to this much trouble to see nature can go
to so little trouble to clean up after themselves. At least this
vulgar reminder of "civilization" did not extend far beyond view of
the automobiles.
We headed east and immediately upward from the ocean into the
redwoods, one of the only places I have seen this forest reach nearly
to the sand. In his excitement, Bruno pulled me a fair distance up
the first hill by his leash, not an altogether unwelcome experience
with fifty extra pounds on my back. He looked at me in obvious
resentment when I strapped his new saddlebags on his back, but I told
him that if he wanted to eat, he was going to have to carry his own
food. By now he seems to have resigned himself to it, although I
think the faint yet constant scent of dog food is getting on his
nerves.
The transition from beach to forest was magical. The sounds and
smells of the ocean faded slowly as we moved inland under the trees,
muffled by the soft carpet of needles and vegetation underfoot and the
tall sentinels of trees all around us, hung with moss. Except for the
occasional call of crows or bluejays and the sigh of the breeze in the
canopy above, silence reigns. The trail has been clear and well-
marked so far, so I have had little need of my maps and fancy compass
other than to locate a few landmarks and check our progress. We wound
among sword ferns reaching taller than my head, climbing over or
around the occasional deadfall.
How can I describe this forest? Each type of forest has its own
feeling, its own personality that one can't experience without walking
in it. The redwood forest is unlike any other I have ever walked in.
The trees are giants, some over twelve feet in diameter. This is a
virgin forest; it has never been logged, and is protected from
industry. It is old; the largest of these trees date back to when we
count the years forward instead of backward; older than Christ. They
are the tallest trees in the world, many as tall as a 20 story
skyscraper or taller. The thick, soft, fibrous red-brown bark runs in
almost vertical ridges up the trunks to the needled canopy far above;
looking closer, you can see that the ribbons of bark wind around the
trunks slightly as they ascend, rather like a peppermint stick. On
every tree it winds in the same direction; a result, I have read, of
the rotation of the earth. The older trees have few lower branches,
waiting to spread them up higher where the sunlight is more plentiful.
Only occasional shafts of sunlight dapple the forest floor, creating
light and shade accents on the dense, lush undergrowth among the
gentle, diffuse luminosity that prevails.
Yet facts do not describe this forest. I confess that I feel a living
presence in the redwoods like in no other, almost a consciousness -
old, wise, and patient. I suspect that if I stop quickly and just
listen, catching it off guard, I might hear it speak. Yet, when I do
stop I imagine it withdrawing, hovering somewhere just outside of my
hearing range in amusement, playing with me but not giving me much
mind, like a movement just outside the corner of your eye that when
you turn your head, disappears. I have heard of discoveries of acres
of plants that seem to be separate but in reality are connected
underground like one huge organism, with a complex nerve-like network.
I know from long-ago botany classes that these trees are not joined in
this way, but it feels as though they communicate. It is not an
ominous or threatening feeling, like in the old European folk tales
where all forests are dark and dangerous, with Hansel and Gretel
witches and other, darker evils lurking deep inside, like the trees
that come alive in the Wizard of Oz. It feels powerful, but benign
and rather comforting. I'm sure if people read this they would think
me daft.
* * * * *
26 August
Again I have missed a day writing. I came across a small family
hiking, father, mother and a young son, probably 11 or so, and we
walked quite a long way together yesterday, and shared a camp last
night. I considered opening the wine, but I will save it for a
special occasion, like deciding what I am going to do with my life.
Bruno barked and growled at them at first, but then settled down. I
told the boy, Adam, not to pet him. This is hard for a boy, I know,
not to hug a big teddy-bear of a dog, but I don't trust the teddy bear
with him.
I am still sore all over from hiking, but so much stronger every day
that it is rather exhilarating. I feel fitter than I have in years. I
am actually sorer and stiffer from sleeping on the ground, which I
must reluctantly attribute to middle age. So, I decided last night to
try a new sleeping arrangement, which fascinated Adam. It did not
take me long to find what I was looking for, a tree that had been
struck by lighting at some point in the distant past so that a large
opening had been burned out of its base. The tree still lived, the
outer bark and wood being intact, and had closed around the opening
above, leaving a space like a small room inside. The "floor" of the
room was lower than the ground outside, so sleeping on the ground
inside would not be wise in case of rain. I checked for spiders or
burrows with my flashlight and with Bruno. Finding none, I shook out
my travel hammock and strung it between four hooks that I screwed into
the inside of the tree a foot from the ground higher than Bruno could
climb (Bruno does not jump, he's too heavy and too much of a woosie).
Adam commandeered this new toy for most of the evening before he was
called to his own sleeping bag by his parents. After sleeping quite
comfortably last night, I have decided I like this arrangement, me in
my bag on the hammock, and Bruno below. Not quite as warm, but
definitely softer than the ground.
Today the family and I parted at a fork in the trail. They took the
clearer path to the east, while we turned north along a much fainter
path. It was time to pull out the compass/cellphone/GPS thing-a-majig
and get serious. That was not the greatest time to discover that the
GPS didn't work in the tall trees. I would have to wait for a
clearing or meadow. So, I counted my steps all day and used the
compass. I am not good at this; I hope I don't get us lost.
We should have crossed a small creek today, but haven't found it. It
continues to get warmer the higher in elevation we go. I smell of
sweat and dog, and am dying for some kind of a bath and a refill for
my canteen. Then again, it is clouding up and looks like it might
rain tonight. I am stringing my groundcloth from the trees just in
case I can catch some water this way.
I saw no other people today, only birds, a few squirrels (which Bruno
chased), and a deer that we surprised on the trail (which the dumb dog
chased). I hope we don't come across a bear, which Akita's were bred
to chase. I don't want to chase a bear.
* * * * *
27 August
A strange thing happened last night. I found another tree-shelter,
this time a fairie-ring that had grown tightly together up above. The
original tree had fallen long ago, hundreds of years ago from the size
of the trees that had sprung up in a circle from the roots surrounding
the trunk, leaving an opening in the middle. Late at night I awoke to
Bruno nervously pacing below my hammock, barking and growling low in
his throat. It was pouring rain, and there was a chokingly strong,
foul smell in the air. I froze, trying not to make any noise, my
breath caught in my throat as much from the stench as from fear. If
Bruno did not scare away whatever was out there, we would be trapped.
Bruno's barks rose to a fever pitch, but he did not venture out of the
ring. I could hear no other noise than the rain, and it was too pitch
black to see. I dared not use the flashlight. But then Bruno stopped
barking and the smell became fainter. I climbed down to pet him, and
the poor thing was shaking as much as I was. I am beginning to
appreciate his loyalty, and I told him so, talking softly in his ear
to calm him down. He snorted at me and laid back down to sleep.
I have never believed in Sasquatch, but I wonder. We are far back in
the forest now, and this is Bigfoot country. I didn't get much sleep
the rest of last night, jumping at every sound.
* * * * *
Nothing to write about for the last few days. No more rain, no more
people, no more barking in the middle of the night, and no new
insights into my work/life dilemmas. If I want to get back to work on
time I will have to turn around soon. The trail has all but
disappeared. I can't find the creek that is shown on the map. I
can't find a clearing in the trees large enough for the GPS to work,
or for me to find landmarks for orientation. I have also lost count
of my steps several times today. I am starting to feel lost, but I am
not worried, yet. I still have a little water for us both.
I let Bruno off the leash today and he bounded away, but I heard him
now and again, crashing through the ferns. I think he was chasing
rabbits.
The air smells fresh and clean. I felt compelled, and still do, to
continue rather than go back. I don't know why, but for once I will
trust my instincts like Jason always tells me to do. I miss him. I
tried to continue north, but there always seemed to be some obstacle
that made me veer west; some gully, downed tree, or outcrop of rocks.
Fine! I yelled to noone at one point, I'll go west! My voice did not
carry far, but was soaked up quickly in the thick, soft vegetation all
around me. So much for yelling for help.
* * * * *
31 August
I cannot believe our luck, or perhaps it was Bruno's nose. We have
found not a tiny creek, but an honest-to-goodness swimming hole, large
and deep and hidden beneath the trees, with great flat rocks suspended
above it, perfect for diving from. The water springs from beneath a
rock formation a few hundred feet upstream, but I can't find it
continuing anywhere below the pool. It must go underground again, I
think.
This pool does not appear anywhere on my maps, so I am still not sure
of our location. I don't care at the moment. I just want to get
clean.
Still 31 August
I have to write this now, right now, to sort it out in my head, or I
will not believe it myself by tomorrow morning.
We had passed no one in almost a week, so I threw caution to the wind
and stripped. I had not been skinny-dipping in years and the cool,
unbelievably clear water felt wonderfully sensuous slipping over my
body. After drinking deeply, Bruno disappeared into the woods again.
He must have known I was thinking of throwing him in as well. After
diving and swimming in the water and washing my clothing, my utensils
and myself, I laid them all out in the small patches of sunlight on
the rocks to dry and climbed up on a huge, flat rock hanging over the
pool to do the same thing to myself. I laid down on my stomach and
hung my head over the edge, peering deep into the pool at a small
school of fish darting in and out of the shadows. It was after I
turned over, laying on my back and looking up into the trees, musing
that not even a helicopter would be able to see the pool through these
intertwined branches, that I noticed it.
I could see small portions of the sky through the lacy green canopy
high above, clear, blue sky with small white clouds lazily drifting by
in a breeze that I could not feel here below. It slowly dawned on me
that something didn't look right. I had been trained for years to
recognize patterns, create patterns, and something was wrong with the
pattern of leaves, branches, sky and clouds that I was seeing above,
but what? Some minor detail, some small thing that didn't fit. I
kept looking at the canopy of one particular, gigantic redwood, and
patiently waited for my head to sort it out.
There it was! A small piece of cloud that was not moving with the
rest but was stationary, between the branches of that one tree near
the pool's edge. I got up and threw some still-damp clothes on -
stretch hiking pants, shoes and a tank top - and went over to stand
below the tree. Leaning against the bark with my hands to steady me,
I looked up again, way up. How very odd. It had disappeared.
Suddenly I noticed that one of my hands was resting on a very thin
cord or rope, nearly invisible against the texture and color of the
bark. Like the person in a horror movie who you know shouldn't open
that door and go into that room but does anyway, I grasped the rope by
a loop that was about at my head height, and pulled it away from the
tree. The end of the rope came free from near the base of the tree,
where there was another loop. The whole thing now hung several feet
away from the trunk. Funny, they looked like the loops we used to put
in swinging ropes when I was a kid. Maybe this one would swing over
the pool. I put one foot into the lower loop, and one wrist through
the upper one. I tugged on it a little. It seemed sturdy enough. Why
not? I told myself, and kicked off to have a swing.
At once I found myself hanging on for dear life as I hurtled up along
the side of the trunk, higher and higher and higher, swinging
alarmingly back and forth. I believe I screamed continuously. It
just kept going and going. In the same seeming slow motion that one's
mind imposes on itself when one thinks one is going to die, I saw a
log-like object pass me on its speedy way down, tied to a thin cord.
A counterweight! I commanded my eyes, the only part of me that was
not frozen in terror, to look up. I was going to be pulled all the
way up into the branches!
Up into the branches it carried me, my wild ascent finally slowing as
I popped through a hole in, of all things, a large platform. Then the
rope went slack. Just as it started down again, I had enough presence
of mind left to step over onto the platform, still clinging to the
rope for fear I would lose it and be stuck up there indefinitely.
That was when I noticed a hook on the edge of the platform, which I
wrapped the foothold around. I did not want to make a downward trip
like my upward one right away. As long as I was up here, I decided I
might as well look around. I certainly wasn't going to repeat the
trip a second time.
I admit that I got down on all fours and crawled. My legs were too
shaky to stand, and I found I had little sense of balance in these
surroundings. Lying on my stomach, I inched forward to the edge of
the platform, which was perfectly flat and level, quite wide and a
dark red-brown like the tree bark, made from the same wood I imagined.
The view downward scared the hell out of me - I must have been two
hundred feet in the air. The pool and its immediate surroundings were
clearly visible far below. My head swimming from vertigo, I shrank
back from the edge and sat up, looking outward. All around, I could
see over many of the trees, off into the distance. I wished I had my
GSP now. How many people ever had this view in their life, looking
through the soft needled branches of tree after tree, butterflies
flitting among them. Well, at least someone had, that was obvious. I
turned back onto my stomach and inched over the edge again to where I
could just see the underside of the platform. It had been very
cleverly painted to resemble branches and sky. I moved my head back
and forth, and the image seemed to change as if by magic. Very clever
indeed, I wondered how they had managed it. I had never seen anything
like it before. I slipped back into the middle of the platform again,
my heart still racing, and examined the way the rope was wound over a
glass-smooth groove in a huge branch, and descended back down to the
ground. You wouldn't see the rope unless you were looking for it, for
its slimness and color. Someone had gone to incredible lengths to
build and camouflage this aerie high in the trees. But why? There
were no clues to be found, no objects left upon the platform. Yet, it
looked cared for, with no cobwebs or debris. The rope itself was not
worn. I started to get a really funny feeling about this, and decided
to get out of there.
This was more easily said than done. Logic told me that if this
contraption had gotten me up safely, it would get me down safely as
well. It was clear enough that someone had gone down in order to tie
off the rope that I discovered below, and they weren't lying dead at
the bottom, now were they? But logic didn't help the fact that I was
almost paralyzed with fear about jumping into that sling again. There
was a reason that I had never gone skydiving, called self-
preservation, and this looked a lot like skydiving to me. I told
myself that I would starve sooner or later if I didn't go down, and it
wasn't like anyone was going to climb up and get me. Scooting over to
the edge of the hole I unhooked the rope, took about thirty deep
breaths (procrastinating), took about twenty more, and slid off the
edge.
I think I screamed all the way down as well. When I got to the
bottom, I forgot to hook the rope to the tree again as I stepped out
of it. The rope flew upwards again, the counterweight dropping toward
the ground at an alarming speed. Afraid that it was going to land on
me, I looked back down just in time to see Bruno standing right in the
line of fire, looking at me curiously. Dumb, dumb dog! I lunged at
him and rolled him away from the base of the tree, the log crashing to
the ground behind us. Bruno yelped in protest and squirmed roughly
away from me. Still lying on the ground panting and shielding my head
with my arms, I waited for the rope to come whipping down. Not
hearing it, I rolled over, leaves and moss and dog hair clinging all
over me, and slowly moved my arms away from my eyes to see if the rope
was still lodged up above.
Instead, I found the angry face of a stranger looming directly over
me.
*Sea Surface Full of Clouds, a poem by Wallace Stevens.
THE TALE OF MARIAN
Chapter 5: Sea Surface Full of Clouds
22 August
It was a long drive, ten hours at least with numerous stops, and I am
very tired. There were no dog accidents in the car, so I have nothing
of any interest to mail to Jason today.
Bruno and I have settled in at a campground on the beach. I had
intended on staying at a motel, but I am learning that motels that
will take really bid dogs are hard to come by. Perhaps if Bruno had
been a Pekingese we would have fared better. As it is, we will both
be getting rather dirty 24 hours before it would have been inevitable.
I am sure that within a few days I will recall a campground with
showers and toilets as a lost luxury.
I did not pack a real tent, only a ground cloth that will serve in
case of rain. So, I reverted to an old and cherished childhood
practice. I searched out a large log of driftwood high up on the
beach, out of reach of the high tide that will come sometime in the
night. With Bruno's "help", I hollowed out a nice depression in the
sand behind it, on the land-side, that will protect us from wind but
not from the coming dampness. A small fire crackles a few feet away.
The sand is still somewhat warm from the sun, unlike the air, which
has become clammy and cold as the sun sinks lower. At least it is not
too windy tonight; I am not fond of blowing sand, especially when it
gets between my teeth and in my eyes. For all the time that I lived
near the beach as a child, my parents and I never once camped on it at
night. We had bonfires on the beach, fireworks on the beach with
coats and blankets, but we went home afterwards, where it was warm.
Camping on the beach all night was left for tourists who wanted the
unique experience of getting soggy and chilled to the bone.
I wandered down the beach with Bruno to make up for keeping him on a
leash, barefoot and luxuriating in the feel of wet sand shifting
between my toes. He refused to step into the surf like I did. He is
no water dog, so I stayed in the uppermost cold foam edges of the
waves as they rhythmically advanced and receded. We have climbed up
onto a large rock formation that juts out into the water, a suitable
vantage point from which to wait for the sunset. The sun is cold now,
glaring off the water so that I have to squint to write, approaching
the clouds; big fluffy ones hovering near the horizon. It should be a
good sunset. Bruno eyes the surf warily, but with fascination. It is
near low tide, and the sea is relatively calm. As I wait, the
constant movement and thrumming sounds of the surf envelop me. This
familiar deep, hypnotic, steady vibration, like a giant heartbeat, has
comforted me throughout my childhood and many times since. One hardly
notices this constant companion to those who live by the sea until one
moves away and suddenly finds it missing. Closing my eyes, I feel the
strain of the past weeks and months begin to fade away, breaking up in
the presence of this ever-moving, ever-changing life force, the
Pacific. It, and the expanse of sky above, make my personal inner
struggles seem simpler, clearer. I have buried the true extent of the
aching loneliness I have felt since Kevin died and it comes to me
fully now; yet as it does, it is eased for the first time. With the
vastness of a universe almost close enough to reach out and grasp, my
heart reaches out to meet it.
The sun has dipped behind the clouds now, sending vivid shafts of
light down through the gaps between them to glitter like diamonds on
the gray-green, shifting surface, tinting the underside of the clouds
and the backs of the soaring gulls a golden-red, the sky intense
amethyst, aquamarine and turquoise, like a Raphaelite painting in
motion. As the now-red sun dips below the horizon, the sky fades to
darker blues and purples, and it is becoming too dark to write. Bruno
is restless. We must make our way back before it is too dark to see.
There will be stars tonight; I see Venus already, glowing yellow low
in the southwest.
* * * * *
23 August
It is morning, and the sea lions are barking somewhere unseen
offshore. An obscuring bank of fog moved in during the night, and the
air is dense, wet and gray. The foghorn that lulled me to sleep last
night can still be heard, muffled and distant. A far cry from the hot
and dry summer days I have become used to in the foothills, but this
is the weather I grew up with. I know in a few days I will be
comfortable with it again.
Today I will drive up the coast a few more hours, first on paving,
then on a gravel road, to the trailhead I have chosen for its
remoteness and seclusion as much as for its beauty. I will be going
much, much further than I have ever ventured before.
* * * * *
24 August
I did not write last night; a combination of exhaustion from hiking
uphill all day, and misjudging how quickly darkness comes in the
forest. I have done better tonight, stopping in the late afternoon to
seek out a good place to camp.
Yesterday I located the trailhead with some difficulty, finding only a
few cars but no people in sight, and the requisite garbage. It is
beyond me why people who go to this much trouble to see nature can go
to so little trouble to clean up after themselves. At least this
vulgar reminder of "civilization" did not extend far beyond view of
the automobiles.
We headed east and immediately upward from the ocean into the
redwoods, one of the only places I have seen this forest reach nearly
to the sand. In his excitement, Bruno pulled me a fair distance up
the first hill by his leash, not an altogether unwelcome experience
with fifty extra pounds on my back. He looked at me in obvious
resentment when I strapped his new saddlebags on his back, but I told
him that if he wanted to eat, he was going to have to carry his own
food. By now he seems to have resigned himself to it, although I
think the faint yet constant scent of dog food is getting on his
nerves.
The transition from beach to forest was magical. The sounds and
smells of the ocean faded slowly as we moved inland under the trees,
muffled by the soft carpet of needles and vegetation underfoot and the
tall sentinels of trees all around us, hung with moss. Except for the
occasional call of crows or bluejays and the sigh of the breeze in the
canopy above, silence reigns. The trail has been clear and well-
marked so far, so I have had little need of my maps and fancy compass
other than to locate a few landmarks and check our progress. We wound
among sword ferns reaching taller than my head, climbing over or
around the occasional deadfall.
How can I describe this forest? Each type of forest has its own
feeling, its own personality that one can't experience without walking
in it. The redwood forest is unlike any other I have ever walked in.
The trees are giants, some over twelve feet in diameter. This is a
virgin forest; it has never been logged, and is protected from
industry. It is old; the largest of these trees date back to when we
count the years forward instead of backward; older than Christ. They
are the tallest trees in the world, many as tall as a 20 story
skyscraper or taller. The thick, soft, fibrous red-brown bark runs in
almost vertical ridges up the trunks to the needled canopy far above;
looking closer, you can see that the ribbons of bark wind around the
trunks slightly as they ascend, rather like a peppermint stick. On
every tree it winds in the same direction; a result, I have read, of
the rotation of the earth. The older trees have few lower branches,
waiting to spread them up higher where the sunlight is more plentiful.
Only occasional shafts of sunlight dapple the forest floor, creating
light and shade accents on the dense, lush undergrowth among the
gentle, diffuse luminosity that prevails.
Yet facts do not describe this forest. I confess that I feel a living
presence in the redwoods like in no other, almost a consciousness -
old, wise, and patient. I suspect that if I stop quickly and just
listen, catching it off guard, I might hear it speak. Yet, when I do
stop I imagine it withdrawing, hovering somewhere just outside of my
hearing range in amusement, playing with me but not giving me much
mind, like a movement just outside the corner of your eye that when
you turn your head, disappears. I have heard of discoveries of acres
of plants that seem to be separate but in reality are connected
underground like one huge organism, with a complex nerve-like network.
I know from long-ago botany classes that these trees are not joined in
this way, but it feels as though they communicate. It is not an
ominous or threatening feeling, like in the old European folk tales
where all forests are dark and dangerous, with Hansel and Gretel
witches and other, darker evils lurking deep inside, like the trees
that come alive in the Wizard of Oz. It feels powerful, but benign
and rather comforting. I'm sure if people read this they would think
me daft.
* * * * *
26 August
Again I have missed a day writing. I came across a small family
hiking, father, mother and a young son, probably 11 or so, and we
walked quite a long way together yesterday, and shared a camp last
night. I considered opening the wine, but I will save it for a
special occasion, like deciding what I am going to do with my life.
Bruno barked and growled at them at first, but then settled down. I
told the boy, Adam, not to pet him. This is hard for a boy, I know,
not to hug a big teddy-bear of a dog, but I don't trust the teddy bear
with him.
I am still sore all over from hiking, but so much stronger every day
that it is rather exhilarating. I feel fitter than I have in years. I
am actually sorer and stiffer from sleeping on the ground, which I
must reluctantly attribute to middle age. So, I decided last night to
try a new sleeping arrangement, which fascinated Adam. It did not
take me long to find what I was looking for, a tree that had been
struck by lighting at some point in the distant past so that a large
opening had been burned out of its base. The tree still lived, the
outer bark and wood being intact, and had closed around the opening
above, leaving a space like a small room inside. The "floor" of the
room was lower than the ground outside, so sleeping on the ground
inside would not be wise in case of rain. I checked for spiders or
burrows with my flashlight and with Bruno. Finding none, I shook out
my travel hammock and strung it between four hooks that I screwed into
the inside of the tree a foot from the ground higher than Bruno could
climb (Bruno does not jump, he's too heavy and too much of a woosie).
Adam commandeered this new toy for most of the evening before he was
called to his own sleeping bag by his parents. After sleeping quite
comfortably last night, I have decided I like this arrangement, me in
my bag on the hammock, and Bruno below. Not quite as warm, but
definitely softer than the ground.
Today the family and I parted at a fork in the trail. They took the
clearer path to the east, while we turned north along a much fainter
path. It was time to pull out the compass/cellphone/GPS thing-a-majig
and get serious. That was not the greatest time to discover that the
GPS didn't work in the tall trees. I would have to wait for a
clearing or meadow. So, I counted my steps all day and used the
compass. I am not good at this; I hope I don't get us lost.
We should have crossed a small creek today, but haven't found it. It
continues to get warmer the higher in elevation we go. I smell of
sweat and dog, and am dying for some kind of a bath and a refill for
my canteen. Then again, it is clouding up and looks like it might
rain tonight. I am stringing my groundcloth from the trees just in
case I can catch some water this way.
I saw no other people today, only birds, a few squirrels (which Bruno
chased), and a deer that we surprised on the trail (which the dumb dog
chased). I hope we don't come across a bear, which Akita's were bred
to chase. I don't want to chase a bear.
* * * * *
27 August
A strange thing happened last night. I found another tree-shelter,
this time a fairie-ring that had grown tightly together up above. The
original tree had fallen long ago, hundreds of years ago from the size
of the trees that had sprung up in a circle from the roots surrounding
the trunk, leaving an opening in the middle. Late at night I awoke to
Bruno nervously pacing below my hammock, barking and growling low in
his throat. It was pouring rain, and there was a chokingly strong,
foul smell in the air. I froze, trying not to make any noise, my
breath caught in my throat as much from the stench as from fear. If
Bruno did not scare away whatever was out there, we would be trapped.
Bruno's barks rose to a fever pitch, but he did not venture out of the
ring. I could hear no other noise than the rain, and it was too pitch
black to see. I dared not use the flashlight. But then Bruno stopped
barking and the smell became fainter. I climbed down to pet him, and
the poor thing was shaking as much as I was. I am beginning to
appreciate his loyalty, and I told him so, talking softly in his ear
to calm him down. He snorted at me and laid back down to sleep.
I have never believed in Sasquatch, but I wonder. We are far back in
the forest now, and this is Bigfoot country. I didn't get much sleep
the rest of last night, jumping at every sound.
* * * * *
Nothing to write about for the last few days. No more rain, no more
people, no more barking in the middle of the night, and no new
insights into my work/life dilemmas. If I want to get back to work on
time I will have to turn around soon. The trail has all but
disappeared. I can't find the creek that is shown on the map. I
can't find a clearing in the trees large enough for the GPS to work,
or for me to find landmarks for orientation. I have also lost count
of my steps several times today. I am starting to feel lost, but I am
not worried, yet. I still have a little water for us both.
I let Bruno off the leash today and he bounded away, but I heard him
now and again, crashing through the ferns. I think he was chasing
rabbits.
The air smells fresh and clean. I felt compelled, and still do, to
continue rather than go back. I don't know why, but for once I will
trust my instincts like Jason always tells me to do. I miss him. I
tried to continue north, but there always seemed to be some obstacle
that made me veer west; some gully, downed tree, or outcrop of rocks.
Fine! I yelled to noone at one point, I'll go west! My voice did not
carry far, but was soaked up quickly in the thick, soft vegetation all
around me. So much for yelling for help.
* * * * *
31 August
I cannot believe our luck, or perhaps it was Bruno's nose. We have
found not a tiny creek, but an honest-to-goodness swimming hole, large
and deep and hidden beneath the trees, with great flat rocks suspended
above it, perfect for diving from. The water springs from beneath a
rock formation a few hundred feet upstream, but I can't find it
continuing anywhere below the pool. It must go underground again, I
think.
This pool does not appear anywhere on my maps, so I am still not sure
of our location. I don't care at the moment. I just want to get
clean.
Still 31 August
I have to write this now, right now, to sort it out in my head, or I
will not believe it myself by tomorrow morning.
We had passed no one in almost a week, so I threw caution to the wind
and stripped. I had not been skinny-dipping in years and the cool,
unbelievably clear water felt wonderfully sensuous slipping over my
body. After drinking deeply, Bruno disappeared into the woods again.
He must have known I was thinking of throwing him in as well. After
diving and swimming in the water and washing my clothing, my utensils
and myself, I laid them all out in the small patches of sunlight on
the rocks to dry and climbed up on a huge, flat rock hanging over the
pool to do the same thing to myself. I laid down on my stomach and
hung my head over the edge, peering deep into the pool at a small
school of fish darting in and out of the shadows. It was after I
turned over, laying on my back and looking up into the trees, musing
that not even a helicopter would be able to see the pool through these
intertwined branches, that I noticed it.
I could see small portions of the sky through the lacy green canopy
high above, clear, blue sky with small white clouds lazily drifting by
in a breeze that I could not feel here below. It slowly dawned on me
that something didn't look right. I had been trained for years to
recognize patterns, create patterns, and something was wrong with the
pattern of leaves, branches, sky and clouds that I was seeing above,
but what? Some minor detail, some small thing that didn't fit. I
kept looking at the canopy of one particular, gigantic redwood, and
patiently waited for my head to sort it out.
There it was! A small piece of cloud that was not moving with the
rest but was stationary, between the branches of that one tree near
the pool's edge. I got up and threw some still-damp clothes on -
stretch hiking pants, shoes and a tank top - and went over to stand
below the tree. Leaning against the bark with my hands to steady me,
I looked up again, way up. How very odd. It had disappeared.
Suddenly I noticed that one of my hands was resting on a very thin
cord or rope, nearly invisible against the texture and color of the
bark. Like the person in a horror movie who you know shouldn't open
that door and go into that room but does anyway, I grasped the rope by
a loop that was about at my head height, and pulled it away from the
tree. The end of the rope came free from near the base of the tree,
where there was another loop. The whole thing now hung several feet
away from the trunk. Funny, they looked like the loops we used to put
in swinging ropes when I was a kid. Maybe this one would swing over
the pool. I put one foot into the lower loop, and one wrist through
the upper one. I tugged on it a little. It seemed sturdy enough. Why
not? I told myself, and kicked off to have a swing.
At once I found myself hanging on for dear life as I hurtled up along
the side of the trunk, higher and higher and higher, swinging
alarmingly back and forth. I believe I screamed continuously. It
just kept going and going. In the same seeming slow motion that one's
mind imposes on itself when one thinks one is going to die, I saw a
log-like object pass me on its speedy way down, tied to a thin cord.
A counterweight! I commanded my eyes, the only part of me that was
not frozen in terror, to look up. I was going to be pulled all the
way up into the branches!
Up into the branches it carried me, my wild ascent finally slowing as
I popped through a hole in, of all things, a large platform. Then the
rope went slack. Just as it started down again, I had enough presence
of mind left to step over onto the platform, still clinging to the
rope for fear I would lose it and be stuck up there indefinitely.
That was when I noticed a hook on the edge of the platform, which I
wrapped the foothold around. I did not want to make a downward trip
like my upward one right away. As long as I was up here, I decided I
might as well look around. I certainly wasn't going to repeat the
trip a second time.
I admit that I got down on all fours and crawled. My legs were too
shaky to stand, and I found I had little sense of balance in these
surroundings. Lying on my stomach, I inched forward to the edge of
the platform, which was perfectly flat and level, quite wide and a
dark red-brown like the tree bark, made from the same wood I imagined.
The view downward scared the hell out of me - I must have been two
hundred feet in the air. The pool and its immediate surroundings were
clearly visible far below. My head swimming from vertigo, I shrank
back from the edge and sat up, looking outward. All around, I could
see over many of the trees, off into the distance. I wished I had my
GSP now. How many people ever had this view in their life, looking
through the soft needled branches of tree after tree, butterflies
flitting among them. Well, at least someone had, that was obvious. I
turned back onto my stomach and inched over the edge again to where I
could just see the underside of the platform. It had been very
cleverly painted to resemble branches and sky. I moved my head back
and forth, and the image seemed to change as if by magic. Very clever
indeed, I wondered how they had managed it. I had never seen anything
like it before. I slipped back into the middle of the platform again,
my heart still racing, and examined the way the rope was wound over a
glass-smooth groove in a huge branch, and descended back down to the
ground. You wouldn't see the rope unless you were looking for it, for
its slimness and color. Someone had gone to incredible lengths to
build and camouflage this aerie high in the trees. But why? There
were no clues to be found, no objects left upon the platform. Yet, it
looked cared for, with no cobwebs or debris. The rope itself was not
worn. I started to get a really funny feeling about this, and decided
to get out of there.
This was more easily said than done. Logic told me that if this
contraption had gotten me up safely, it would get me down safely as
well. It was clear enough that someone had gone down in order to tie
off the rope that I discovered below, and they weren't lying dead at
the bottom, now were they? But logic didn't help the fact that I was
almost paralyzed with fear about jumping into that sling again. There
was a reason that I had never gone skydiving, called self-
preservation, and this looked a lot like skydiving to me. I told
myself that I would starve sooner or later if I didn't go down, and it
wasn't like anyone was going to climb up and get me. Scooting over to
the edge of the hole I unhooked the rope, took about thirty deep
breaths (procrastinating), took about twenty more, and slid off the
edge.
I think I screamed all the way down as well. When I got to the
bottom, I forgot to hook the rope to the tree again as I stepped out
of it. The rope flew upwards again, the counterweight dropping toward
the ground at an alarming speed. Afraid that it was going to land on
me, I looked back down just in time to see Bruno standing right in the
line of fire, looking at me curiously. Dumb, dumb dog! I lunged at
him and rolled him away from the base of the tree, the log crashing to
the ground behind us. Bruno yelped in protest and squirmed roughly
away from me. Still lying on the ground panting and shielding my head
with my arms, I waited for the rope to come whipping down. Not
hearing it, I rolled over, leaves and moss and dog hair clinging all
over me, and slowly moved my arms away from my eyes to see if the rope
was still lodged up above.
Instead, I found the angry face of a stranger looming directly over
me.
*Sea Surface Full of Clouds, a poem by Wallace Stevens.