A Walk in the Wetlands

A great egret has been visiting the wetlands where my husband and I walk every day.

As we walk along the boardwalk that loops through the standing water, we see him from a distance, a splash of white against the dark shrubbery behind him.  He stands in the water, neck curved, watching for tiny green frogs among the drowned grasses.  Or he stalks, head swaying back with each long-legged step forward.

Breathless, we pass the binoculars back and forth between us, standing at the closest point to him that the boardwalk will allow, hoping he won't fly away.  But we gasp with the beauty of it when he does-- when the huge wings open, curving in a great arc as he scoops air beneath them.  As he rises. As he flies.

He is gone, and we walk on, speaking of him in hushed voices, hoping that when we come back again tomorrow, he will have come back too.

Gerard Manley Hopkins said it best:


The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil,
It gathers to a greatness like the ooze of oil
Crushed.

As the sun disappears behind the foothills of the mountains, spreading a glory of pink and gold over the darkening sky behind it, we walk among the cattail stalks, listening to the marsh wren chirring just out of sight.  

In the willows above, red-winged blackbirds call to one another, their bright shoulder-patches ruffling up with every call.   There are so many that they sound like a concert of reed flutes.  They dive from the trees to sway atop the cattails, then flutter up again to perch in the branches.  "Poke your neigh-bor!' my son used to tell us they were saying.  He has grown too old now for such imaginings, but the blackbirds' song does not change.

Mallard ducks are flying in to roost in the cattail beds for the night.  Their short wings make a whistling sound as they beat at the air, losing altitude gradually as they circle.  Below in the shallow water, ducks that have already found resting places quack sleepily, or flap their wings in indignation when the newcomers land too close.

Later we pass through a wooded area where the water merely pools among the trees.  We remember the time a sudden knocking sound made us raise our heads, and a pileated woodpecker eyed us from the trunk above, crest burning bright over a white-striped face.

We never know exactly what we will see in the wetlands.  Pacific tree frogs shout from the puddles, and Oregon red-spotted garter snakes sun themselves on the boards, disappearing with a flick of their black tails when walking humans approach too near.  In the spring and fall, woolly-bear caterpillars trundle along the wooden rails, always seeming to have somewhere very important they need to be.

We notice gnaw-marks on the trunk of a tree and wonder if the beaver we saw last year is back.  In the dusk we would see its wet brown back slicing the water, and once or twice even heard the "smack!" as the flat tail struck the surface.  And though we haven't glimpsed it in some time, still the trees carry "beaver bites," as we overheard a very small human visitor call them once. 

The wetlands.

This is the place where the tension and frazzle of the day drop away from us.  The place where life has been lived just as it is, for centuries before humans ever built houses or drove cars or collected taxes.  This is where it all drops into perspective, where none of the things that worry me are important; where, as Hopkins wrote,

nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things. . . 

Here in the wetlands, the presence of God is palpable.  Here in the wetlands, I find that the things that so concern humanity are only passing, temporary things. Here, the seasons and the cycles change always, but nothing ever changes at all.

Here I can breathe.

Here I can think.

And here is where I like to come alone sometimes, to worship.

I just wanted to share it with you today-- with anyone who comes and wants to walk that boardwalk with me in their thoughts.

I hope you enjoyed it.

The Camping Trip that Wasn't

Thursday morning my family and I got up early for our annual camping trip.  This year we had decided on a new place: Rock Creek Campground, near Yachats on the central Oregon coast, purported to have campsites in the deep woods of the Coast Range, with a half-mile trail straight to the beach.

We'd worked hard all week getting ready: pulling the tents, camp stove, folding canvas chairs, cooler, and all the other accouterments out of the shed, shopping for eggs, hot dogs, sandwich fixings and s'mores ingredients, and packing our duffle bags.  I was especially looking forward to strolls along the sand gazing at the ocean waves, songs and stories around the campfire, and looking up at the impossible number of stars in a sky removed from town lights.

But Rock Creek was a disappointment-- campsites either too small or right out in the open, with no sense of seclusion or privacy anywhere.  We headed back a few miles towards Cape Perpetua Campground, which we'd stayed at before, and which had no direct beach access but at least had more private sites.

As soon as we'd chosen a site there, I left my husband and kids to sit and hold it against all comers, and drove the van up to one of the two camp managers' sites, to pay for the space and order firewood.    "Off Duty," proclaimed a sign in the window.  "See Manager in Space 2."

Oh, well.  I got back into the van to turn it around and drive back down to Space 2.

The van wouldn't start.  It choked and gasped for gas, couldn't find any, and gave up.  Over and over again.

But the tank was nearly full.  Something was very wrong.

I got out of the van and rushed back down to the site where my family was waiting.  "The van won't start!"  I told my husband.

"Stay here and keep holding the site!" he told our two teenagers.  We trotted back up to the van.  He tried it.  It still wouldn't start.

We walked down to Space 2 and spoke to the manager that was in.  He suggested the engine might be flooded.  Well, maybe.  By this time it was well after noon.  We walked back up the hill to the van and got out the cooler and a couple of bags, carried it back to our proposed site and made some sandwiches.  "If the engine is flooded, and the van starts after lunch, we can stay," we told the kids.  "If not, we'll have to get it towed."

After lunch it still wouldn't start.  With the kids' help we packed everything back into the back of the van.  No cell phone service was available at the campground, so the managers kindly let us use their phone to contact our insurance company.  Could they locate a mechanic in a nearby coastal town for us?  Could they send a tow truck for the van?

They could.  One would be there in 45 minutes.  But as soon as I'd hung up the phone, my husband pointed out that most tow trucks only carry two passengers.  We'd better call back and make sure they sent a tow truck that could transport the four of us.  I sighed, but he was right.  Back on the phone, I sat on hold once again for the insurance company's emergency road service people.  Yes, they could recall the tow truck they'd sent out and send a bigger one that would seat four passengers.  But this was going to take at least another hour.

By this time it was 3 pm.  We thanked the managers profusely for giving us extended use of their phone when we weren't even going to be paying for a campsite, and walked back up to where the van was.  We found a nearby picnic table to sit at.  I began to read aloud to them (a favorite pastime on camping trips, though the reading matter has changed quite a bit over the years).  I read them The Thirteen Clocks by James Thurber.  Then we began on a Jeeves-and-Wooster novel, The Mating Season by P.G. Wodehouse.   Chipmunks ran by the table.  A brown rabbit hopped out of the bushes a little ways away, and hopped slowly into the next clump of bushes.  The trees rustled, the sun shone, the camp robbers screeched overhead.  In spite of everything we began to enjoy ourselves a little.

After about an hour and half, one of the managers drove up to tell us the insurance company had finally located a tow truck with a large enough cab, but it had been an hour and a half's drive away, in Lincoln City.  It was now almost here but had gotten lost.  We sighed and shrugged, broke out a few snacks, and went on reading.

At ten minutes to five the truck finally arrived.  I needed to use the manager's phone again, this time to call the mechanic whose number we'd been given (hoping like crazy he was an honest man!) to tell him we were coming and ask if he'd keep the shop open till we got there.  He would.  We piled into the tow truck and drove to Waldport, a little town that boasted only one mechanic, but was small enough so that the things we needed-- mechanic, hotel, restaurant-- would all be in walking distance.  The tow truck operator, who was very nice, told us that he knew this mechanic and that he was "a good guy."  Great relief.

The mechanic was a gentle, kindly, weathered man who looked to be in his forties.  He took our key and promised to check out the situation and order parts before he left that night.  Probably the fuel pump.  Yes, probably the fuel pump, we agreed.

I felt very odd and exposed, walking from the mechanic's to the hotel he told us about (roughly a half mile back the way we'd come, right on the main coast highway in downtown Waldport), carrying duffle bags, our small cooler and a bag of reading material.  Families of four did not customarily walk across small towns carrying their luggage down the sidewalks.  Were people staring?  I decided to try not to notice.

The hotel was small but clean, as was the room.  But there were no fans, and only one window would actually open.  The room was marked "No Smoking" but gave forth a definite smell indicating that someone had recently broken that rule.  We opened the bathroom window and went across the street to eat a not-too-bad dinner.  Afterwards we were so tired that we turned out the lights at 10 pm. sharp, and slept until 8 the next morning.

Friday morning, 9:00.  Gotta find breakfast.  Was the place where we'd eaten dinner open for breakfast?  No.  There was a tavern next door that would serve breakfast, but not our kids.  We walked up the street, then back down.  No cafes, no bakeries.  A service man waiting on a customer at a gas station looked up as we walked by.  Did he know where we could eat that was within walking distance?  Only one place, and that was back the way we'd just come, then up another street a good ways.

We walked the good ways.  Breakfast was only mediocre.  The fritters were underdone, as were the eggs.  We ate them anyway.  Then we called the mechanic.  What was the prognosis on the car?

It was indeed the fuel pump.  Yes, he'd been able to get parts that would arrive later today.  He'd have the van ready by mid-afternoon.  Oh, good.  Thank you so much!  We've got to check out of the hotel now and bring the luggage back, ok? Ok.

Another long traipse down the sidewalks laden with duffel bags.  The mechanic's black cocker spaniel greeted us at the door.  The mechanic smiled at us.  He was so sorry he didn't have a vehicle that would have transported us to the hotel and back.  That was all right, we told him.  Was there beach access anywhere within walking distance?

Yes-- down by the marina.  There was a nice beach overlooking the bay.  No ocean waves, but lots of nice sand, shells and gulls.  We loaded the small cooler with drinks, put snacks and binoculars in the book bag, and went down to the beach.  There were a couple of small restaurants there to serve the boat docks.  Hooray, a place to eat lunch later!  We found a pile of rocks and sat down to enjoy the sunshine.  We waded a little, watched the gulls and a couple of cormorants flying around.  Read more Jeeves and Wooster.   Began once again to enjoy ourselves.

Lunch was clam chowder and hot dogs in one of the little cafes.  We were still feeling a little queasy from the mediocre breakfast, though, so we didn't eat much.  As we were finishing, the mechanic called.  The van was fixed.  Hooray!

Back through the streets to the mechanic's.  A fuel pump is an expensive repair.  Oh, well.  "Another day older, and deeper in debt," right?  Heh, heh.  But we have wheels again!  We decided to drive up to Newport and look in shops and galleries along the bay front.  So nice to not be trundling luggage!

Ice cream on the bay front.  As we licked our cones we watched a young man casting crab nets over the fence and scooping in Dungeness crabs,  most of which were undersize or female and had to be tossed back.  Then we walked a little ways and laughed at a large group of sea lions all trying to hang out on a dock that was too small to hold them all.  They barked and showed their teeth at one another, jockying for the best places, now and again shoving one of them over the side back into the water.  "There were ten in the bed, and the little one said, 'Roll over, roll over.' So they all rolled over, and one fell out," I sang to my husband and kids.  They laughed.

At 5 pm we'd had enough walking, having seen hundreds of beautiful and unusual things for sale. We talked about maybe finding some firewood and a day-use beach, and roasting for tonight's dinner the hot dogs that had been meant for Thursday night's campfire, but we were worn out.  So we drove home, ordered some Chinese, and went to bed.

It wasn't exactly the vacation we'd expected.  It certainly wasn't the inexpensive trip we'd budgeted!  But it was an adventure, and a lot of it was pretty fun.  In any case, it's a far more interesting story to tell than an ordinary camping narrative of s'mores and sausages and sleeping bags.   And stories are important.  Family stories like this define us to ourselves, and they give us memories that will last into the next generation.

I sure missed that campfire, though-- and the ocean waves, and the starry skies.

Maybe next year.

Being Thankful

It seems appropriate to do the traditional thing today and say what I'm thankful for. Here goes, then:

I'm thankful for my health, my comfortable (if small) home, and for the love of my sweet husband and children, my dear sister, my extended family and my friends.

I'm thankful that I learned how to break the cycle of codependency and dysfunction in my family, so that my children are growing up feeling freely loved, without control or guilt.

I'm thankful for the Internet and for all the interaction and connection with people I would never otherwise have known.

I'm thankful for authors who have made an impact on my life, opening my mind and heart: J.R.R. Tolkien, Wendy and Richard Pini, C.S. Lewis, Dorothy L. Sayers, Terry Pratchett, J.K. Rowling, Patricia McKillip, Robin McKinley, and Diana Wynn Jones.

I'm thankful that despite our hardships, we have never had to go hungry.

I'm thankful that I live in the beautiful Pacific Northwest: for firs and ferns, mushrooms and morning glories, oceans and mountains.

I'm thankful for the presence of the Spirit of God in my life.

Forests

This is the last of my introductory posts, which are about my foundations: what makes me who I am. They wouldn’t be complete unless I talked a little bit about the woods and mountains.

I was raised in the Rocky Mountains, in a house surrounded by pines. I live in the Pacific Northwest now, and I find its softer, greener mountains just as beautiful, in a different way. I love the beaches here too-- their grassy white dunes, and the trees that sometimes grow almost down to the sand. And I love the wetlands, with their cattails and cool, still waters, and the smaller trees that thrive with their roots wet nearly year-round. But it’s the mountain forests that call to me.

I remember my last visit to my favorite woods-- a mix of evergreen and leafy trees, with bark dust and needles, flowers and ferns, covering the rising ground. The air was warm that day, and heavy with the morning's rainfall, the sky a brilliant blue. I left my car and stepped under the trees. The forest, familiar but never quite expected, surrounded me like friendship. I placed a hand on a moss-covered trunk, feeling the rough, wet bark under my palm, my ears filled with birdsong and the humming of insects.

The path curved over a low hill. I stood at the top, feeling the presence of the trees. I passed through a grassy oak savannah, and then back under the pines, which gathered thick and dark around me. I shivered a little with pure pleasure as a squirrel ran across a branch over my head, and I turned back towards my car.

The woods are where I belong: the place I lived before I could talk; the place I called home before I even knew the word for home. I have not been able to live there for years, but the forest, to me, is the most real place on earth.

Every day I drive to the office, spending the hours with phones and fax machines and endless paper. Every evening I return to the four walls of my house, to television sets and video games and kids asking for help with homework. But when I can find time to return to the forest, when I take a deep breath of moist woodland air and feel the bark dust beneath my feet-- it is then that I think, "This is real life. This was here before I came and will be here when I'm gone.” My life falls into perspective in the shadow of the pines, in the silence that breathes behind the hills.

Whenever I’m troubled, or stressed, it’s under the trees that I find my center again. The forest is where I find it easiest to find God. And I find it impossible to doubt God there. The forest is where all my doubts and fears disappear in the quiet.

I love my husband, and my kids, and my work, and my life. But in the very deepest, innermost place of my being, the woods grow endlessly. And my Father walks among them.