The Furious Spinner

I hope you are all having a great week. On Monday, Mario and I went to Catherine Creek, a patch of land east of White Salmon, Washington. On the south side of the road, a paved trail leads you around the landscape and signs describe the wildflowers. On the north side of the road, the trail is a bit more untamed. Still, it used to be a ranch, and cattle and sheep decimated the wildflowers. It's like a little miracle to come here from February through June and see the different wildflowers blooming at different times. Some have blossoms as tiny as the head of a pin. Others are huge plants, like the wild parsley. They look like heads of frizzy light green hair with purple (or green) flowers poked into them.

We stopped at one point and sat on a bench overlooking Catherine Creek. To the southwest of us was Mount Hood. The sky was completely clear, pale blue. The creek, which will be dry by June, spilled down the scrubland into a pool beneath our viewpoint. A meadow lark sang from one of the ponderosa pine trees. Above, a red-tailed hawk circled. I lay my head on Mario's lap and listened to the water fall into the pool and was happy as a clam. (What does that mean? Are clams particularly happy? How would anyone know?)

Today, we drove out to Falling Creek, which is in the Giff. They don't open the gate until April 1st, but we hoped to park near the gate and walk in. Last week it had been too snowy, but today we were surprised to find the snow almost all melted. We drove up to the gate and discovered it was open, so we kept driving. The road was clear of snow and most of the blowdown. We met the sheriff's truck; they had been clearing the road. He told us he had forgotten to lock the gate, but it was OK for us to keep going. I was so excited. Falling Creek is one of my favorite places to go. One summer I hiked it one to three times a week. Last summer I wasn't able to hike it much because I was ill. I figured the gate being open was a good sign.

The first thing I did after getting out of the car—besides peeing—was to say a little blessing and ask permission to enter the forest. I figured it was only polite.

(I want to say something about relieving oneself in the woods right here and now—especially to women. It is disgusting and sickening and polluting to leave your toilet paper all over the forest. STOP IT!!! Just shake it off, ladies. It'll dry. If you have to do anything besides urinate, either take it out with you in a plastic baggie or dig a freaking hole and bury it six inches down. That goes for your dogs' poo, too. Poop pollutes. Yes, wild animals defecate in the forest, but they don't have the same bacteria or all the different chemical residues which we leave behind in our crapola.)

Moving right along...

I'm often at a loss on how to describe what it's like being out in Nature. To me it is always a profound and ordinary experience. I grew up in the country, so being in the wilds—albeit relatively tame wilds—feels natural. Although being in the forests of the Pacific Northwest is a bit different than being on my 80 acres of "wildness" back in Michigan. Out here, you have to be alert for ticks, bears, cougars, and the like. And I am. I am always aware of sounds and sights which might tell me a predator is near. Fresh scat is one sign. Teeth marks on the cambium beneath the bark of a tree, still oozing from the injury, is another sign. Today we found only elk scat.

Falling Creek is an old growth forest. As we walked, we looked up at Douglas firs that were three and four hundred years old, leaning toward old and gorgeous cedars. We also encountered many trees that had fallen over during the winter. At this time of year, the forest is just beginning to realize it is spring. The buds on trees are starting to unfold, ever so slightly. The Oregon grape stays green and shiny all year round. The rest is still dormant. In a week or so, the ferns will begin to rise, along with vanilla leaf, trillium, violets. Now, the forest floor was all humus, fertile ground for whatever grows there.

Mario and I walked the trail this morning, breathing in the old forest. I was absolutely giddy with joy. The trail is 1.7 miles to the waterfall, where it ends. Then you have to turn around and come back. On the way to the falls, the trail is up. Up. Up. No rest for the wicked. Or anyone else. It took me a long time to be able to walk this trail. Even these days, I don't always make it. I get dizzy or have trouble breathing, or just run out of stamina. Today, I almost ran up the trail. What a difference a few months and some drugs will do ya! (Last summer I didn't realize I was fighting a staph infection from a bug bite—or something—on my back. Then it blew up, I went to the hospital, and they gave me antibiotics which gave me hives. I could barely stand to wear clothes. I walked around the house naked for weeks, my back looking like elephant skin. It itched so badly I couldn't sleep and often curled up into a ball and wept. But I'm sure I've told you this little tale before.)

Anyway, I was so relieved I was able to walk the trail. Up and around. Stopping to chug water. Listening. Reaching out to touch the old ones. What is it like to be in one place for hundreds of years? The things you must know.

I could hear the first waterfall before I saw it. Up.

We came to railroad ties. We don't know why, but a pile of railroad ties sits on the curve of the trail near a plastic bridge. When I see the ties, when I know I can make it to them, then I know I can make it to the waterfalls. We kept going and stood on the bridge watching milk white water tumble over bright green moss-covered boulders to fall beneath us.

Up and up. Around.

Now I could hear the three-tiered waterfalls which marked the end to this trail. We stood on a spot on the trail where we could see the waterfalls and the white creek beneath it. Then we continued walking. I always wondered at this point in the trail—where forest gave way a bit to cliffs and caves above us—if cougar or bear watched us. I murmured, "I don't taste good. Pretty much skin and bones. I blame the flu, but there you have it. Maybe next time."

Then up and over. Thunder. The water fell over the tiers, then free fell for a hundred feet or so, before slamming into the pool and becoming the body of the creek. Mist rose from it all. Mario and I held hands and watched. Usually at this time of year, the creek and waterfalls were more swollen with snowmelt than they were today. We wondered if this meant we were in for a drought, or if the snow had not melted yet. We ate apples, then wrapped the cores in a towel and returned them to our backpack.

I squatted close to the Earth and breathed in the place: the blue sky, clouds sweeping across it like the white hair of some unseen giant; the huge damp boulders resting on the ground we stood upon, like toys that same giant had tossed down from the mountainside; mist rising like breath on a cold morning, or water coaxed into steam by a seductive sun; the white water streaming over the rock like moving icing over an earth-colored wedding cake; Mario and me still with wonder. When I stood again, pulled up by Mario's hand reaching for mine, I hoped I could convey to you the absolute beauty of it all.

So I breathe it back out again for you.

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