Out here the only sound is the wind in the treetops, an endless ujjayi breath through the forest. Clouds roll in, roll out. The Salmon River Trail leads us upward, away from the river and the campers, deeper into the meditation of the woods.
There is a safety in the vulnerability of going into the wilderness. An invitation to let go of the franticity and urgency of modern living and let the truth reveal itself. Let old wounds surface in the stillness of the slow pace so they can begin to heal.
My cousin and I are planning to hike together on the Pacific Crest Trail in a couple of years. This is one of the dearest parts of the wild world that I look forward to sharing with her.
One foot after another, a gentle thump with each step onto the soft, mulchy earth. Sometimes the dog leads, sometimes I do. It's my first hike in these boots, and my first hike on this trail without another human being, or more accurately, another male human being. I've followed many a man through the dark woods, more often metaphorically than physically, hoping that I could guide them out, that they would see the light, and that the light would be me.
All the wise folks throughout the years told me again and again that this was not how love worked, that nobody could ever make another person love them truly, that nobody could ever make another person change. This was not something I readily believed, mostly because I was in denial, but also because some of those men told me they did want to change, and that I could save them. This is believe wholeheartedly, because I wanted redemption as the saviour, and because they believed it, even if it was, at its core, a lie. Especially for him, my last and longest holdout. He didn't want to change. He wanted someone to love him for who he was, to make his actions ok, even though he knew they hurt me.
As I walk, I think of the peace that hiking trails bring me. It must have felt peaceful for him out here, too. I do believe that the good parts of him, the sweet parts of him that loved me--that I waited in vain for--wanted to share this peace with me amidst the tumult of our relationship. Or at the very least have me nearby while he felt it.
I cannot forgive him for hurting me, but I can forgive him for being broken. And I can forgive myself for spending so many precious years trying to mend another when I should have been mending myself.
These are new memories I make out here. My memories, and my peace. My dog and I walk farther than I've gone on this trail with anyone else.
On the way back it rains some, a light drizzle that struggles to find its way through the canopy and onto the forest floor. The green of the foliage glows in the overcast as if it were a separate light source, and though I've seen this before I'm overcome with emotion, like falling in love with someone who'd been there all along. The woods are dark and warm, and I half expect to encounter some magical event just around the bend. A festival, maybe, or a midsummer ritual. A communion of elves and deer.
But there is no magic other than the magic of the woods themselves, and the trail that leads us back down the hill to the river, where a group of campers ask if rain is expected in tonight's forecast. I don't think so, I tell them, but mountains like to make their own weather. One camper wonders aloud to me if they shouldn't pack up and leave. I look to the treetops and suggest they might hinder the downpour she is concerned about. I am no expert, but I think my words bring some reassurance. Our knowledge of the forecast will have no effect on the weather's ultimate decision.
Stay here in the woods, I think. Don't abandon this beauty over a little drizzle.
Back at the car I make dinner. A couple drives past, circles around the campground that has been converted to day use only, and comes back. They ask me about camping, if they can camp here in spite of the signs. Again I don't have an answer, though I mention that it's unlikely anyone will think much about a car parked where backpackers hike, especially if their tent is hidden away...
Stay here in the woods.
After dinner I drive lazily down the road along the river. I'm not ready to go home. I park the car in a turnout and climb into the bed in the back with my dog.
Stay here in the woods.
I wake in the night to the sound of rain on the roof of my car. I think of the campers upstream, of backpackers in the backcountry, of raindrops spattering against the flies of their tents while they sleep deep and warm and dry inside.
These photos were taken on the Salmon River Trail in the Salmon-Huckleberry Wilderness in Oregon. Except for this one of my new boots, which was taken the next day at the timberline of Mt. Hood, northeast of the region...
...and this one of Pilot, which was taken at Trillium Lake, an absolute madhouse of tourists and screaming children until we ditched the trail and found some grey jays to play with and Pilot got this lucky bird poop on his ear.
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