The Furious Spinner

Been sick. Off and on for days. Had a great week and then just crashed. This is what always startles me, discourages me, even after all these years. I will feel well—almost normal—and then out of the blue (it seems) I'm sicker than a dog. (I'll have to find out where that expression comes from.) But I won't bore you with the details. On the upswing today. Got up early. Mario made breakfast; then off we went to Falling Creek for a hike.

We were surprised to drive into the parking lot and see it was empty. We hurried down the trail. It was cooler than I had expected, and I was chilly for a few minutes, but that soon passed. It was so quiet, green, and lovely. Sunlight fell through the trees, getting caught in foliage in some places and falling to the ground and across branches and tree trunks in other spots. I took a tissue from my pocket ,and it fell on the ground. At least I thought it did—when I looked down to retrieve it, it had turned into a circle of light. It was a shapechanging kind of morning. A few minutes later I thought I saw a man on the trail ahead of me, but it was only a patch of light, lounging against the hillside.

We were on the lookout for flowers, as usual. We saw what we thought was a fungus, with several snow white "stems," about a half 'n inch tall, with these tiny orange balls resting on the top of the stems. (It turned out to be something commonly called the "gnome plant"—hemitomes congestum—not a fungus, part of of the heath family. ) Few flowers are blooming in the forest at this time of year. Most are small, with blossoms pointing down rather than up, mostly part of the heath family. Up by the dogwood, up Hecate's Highway (where it feels like hell because you're going up, up, up), we saw the first bright red huckleberries. Too early to pick. The Oregon grapes are producing their bitter dusty purple berries. The tiny white and pinkish bell-shaped salal flowers always remind me of curvaceous Chinese lanterns. Later in the summer, the salal will produce edible berries.

The two smaller waterfalls—before the tiered waterfall at the end of the trail—were dried up. For a few moments, we stood at the dried falls at Pika Village where the small lagomorphs reside amongst the broken pieces of lava, looking around for the pika. We hadn't seen one in a few years, and I was starting to wonder if they had left town. Then suddenly one came out of its stony abode (think cross between a guinea pig and a rabbit, only smaller than both). Then another one dashed across the gray rocks. We were awash in pikas! We thanked them for showing themselves, then continued onto the waterfalls.

We were still alone when we reached the falls. We leaned back against a tall rock and gazed at the falls, with me tucked in that cozy place between Mario's body and his arm. We were amazed (and grateful) to have the place to ourselves on this Sunday morning.

On the way back, we still hadn't seen any other people. I said, "Where is everyone? Do they know something we don't know?" Mario said, "They're all in church." "Hallelujah!" I said.

We were almost to the end of the trail before we met another couple. It was a peaceful, beautiful couple of hours on our favorite trail.

Now it's several hours later. I'm waiting for the sun to go down. It's a planting day, and I tried working in the flower beds earlier, but it was too hot. I'm inside, where's it's dark and cozy and I can hear Mario walking around upstairs. It's funny but when I am sick and right after—when I'm feeling better—nothing matters except my small little world. I relish and cherish each ordinary extraordinary moment of my life without pain or sickness. I feel cocooned, cottony, by this feeling of...relief? gratefulness? I'm not certain how to describe it. But I know at this very moment: I am happy.

Hallelujah.

I hope you all had a good day, too.

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