The Furious Spinner

Saturday was cold but sunny, so Mario and I drove out into the woods. Our intention was to hike around Panther Creek, but the road out to this part of the Pacific Crest trail was covered in snow and blowdown. After we got temporarily stuck in the snow and ice, we parked the car and got out and walked.

We slipped and slid around fallen trees. The sound of water permeated everything. Snow melt was filling up the streams and rivers and creating new paths. We walked for a long time on this road that wound through second and third growth. It is not the same walking through a "forest" of new growth as it is hiking through old growth. In new growth it is quiet: an empty kind of silence. In an old growth forest you know immediately you are amongst elders. You participate in the hush that fills you with a kind of sacred or ancient silence. Nothing empty about this quiet. We knew the old growth was not far away, so we trudged through the snow and cold, knowing we would arrive soon.

We could hear Panther Creek. The trail would appear soon. Pioneers to this area called the huge blond cats they found panthers. This creek was named Panther Creek after an early settler watched a cat cross the creek using a log as a stepping stone. Today we call these felines cougars and mountain lions. Although I have never seen one on the trail, I have witnessed them crossing the road in front of my car, and I was awestruck each time. A thing of beauty. A huge thing of beauty. When I am hiking in these woods alone, I am aware of how small I am. I talk to the cougars all the while I'm walking, "Hello. I'm really not good to eat. Especially with all these clothes on. Yuck. Nice day, isn't it? I'm really too much trouble. Everyone says so."

Early settlers tell stories of the panthers who followed their children to and from school. Even the poet Rod McKuen who lived here forty or fifty years ago talked about the cougar that followed him to school. He thought they were great buddies. The children of the settlers apparently did not fear the giant cats. Their parents did, however, and as soon as they got wind of the mountain lions padding along beside their children, they killed the animals.

Most wildlife experts today, when told these stories, are not surprised. They say the cougars probably were not stalking the children. They are notoriously curious animals and probably just wanted to see what was going on.

Mario and I finally came upon the trail head. We stepped into the old growth forest. Hush. A deep green light. On the ground, all kinds of tracks left: deer, elk, coyote and/or dog, cougar. Yes, cougar, as far as I could tell. No visible claw or nail marks like with the canines. Wider pad.

We walked to the river. It rushed past us, pouring over a rock-strewn riverbed, on its way to the Columbia River. We paused for a time, then headed back. I pressed my face against an old cedar. How old? I wondered. Three or four hundred years. I used to ask these tree mystics to share their wisdom with me—give me some wisdom and healing, please—but no longer. At least not today. Today I only wanted to be with them, feel their presence. What a wonder it must have been to be alive all these years. I am a blip in your life. A kiss soon forgotten.

I liked that word mystic. It means "mysteriously symbolic; inspiring a sense of mystery and wonder." Trees have always inspired me. When I was a child, I named the woods behind our house the Lullabye Forest. I had names for each of the trees. My uncle sold the land when I was a teenager, and the new owners cut down most of the trees. To this day, I have no memory of the end of my forest.

I hugged the Mystic cedar tree. Then we retraced our footsteps back to the car. Crows called out as we left, like royal trumpeters announcing our departure. We bowed before we left the forest.

Later, we ate lunch. Afterward Mario went into the kitchen to do the dishes while I sat on the couch and meditated. I called him back into the living room, and he sat with me. Relaxing music played in the background while we held hands and sat together. I glanced over at Mario. His eyes were closed, his face calm and relaxed. I smiled. He was my mystic, too: mysterious and inspiring.

A while later, we drove to Vancouver to see Mystic River. We were trying to see all five of the pictures nominated for best film. I have not read the Dennis Lehane novel. It may be a marvelous book. I like the title. We did not like the film. I recognize people worked very hard on the movie, and I appreciate the creative impulse so much that I don't like to criticize art. But I didn't like the movie, and I don't understand why people have been raving about it. I have liked the work of all the major actors in Mystic River in other movies, but in this one, I kept catching them acting. The story is essentially a murder mystery. I wondered if the critics who raved over this watch television. I've seen lots of episodes of Law and Order (the original) that had better stories and better characters. I didn't believe a word of the movie.

Ah well. Afterward, Mario and I went and worked at the library for a while, then drove home in the darkness. As the car wound down SR14, I watched the road lit by our highbeams for deer or cougar. None crossed our path. Mario yawned and drove on. I leaned my head on his shoulder. He felt solid and secure. Like the old cedar. Only shorter. I smiled and closed my eyes. It had been a grand day, all around. 0 comments

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All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.