Once again, I mistook wetness for cold, and found myself overdressed and sweating upon my walk. Somehow, my sense of internal moisture was comforting, as my sweat glands mimicked the dripping from the Dougs. Everything is moist here and now. The rain has stopped, for the moment, but the dripping continues, telling me when the breeze is winding it’s way above my head.
As I enter the gate at Grass Lake, I am greeted by frog song. I love the sound of their glory, calling to each other, rejoicing that the rainy season has returned. I feel that way as well, glad of the softer light, the more vivid green. I can never get enough of the vitality that is apparent everywhere that I look around me, when I am in the woods, here in the Pacific Northwest.
My life has taken its own winding path. From the concrete canyons of the Big Apple to the open skies of the Land of Enchantment, I have done my time in the cities and the desert. Here in the land of rain, my skin is softer, my eyes more relaxed, my nervous system is soothed by the sound of the water falling from the sky.
And the frog song.
As the frogs sing their welcome, I pass by the rolling thicket of blackberries. They chide me in their silence, wondering where I was when the fruit was full to bursting, and why it is that I didn’t make time for them this year, so they could feed me sweet summer delight from my freezer all winter long. And I make silent promises that next year, I will do better. I will be more present, more in tune with the rhythm of the seasons, and the seasons of my palate.
As I enter the alder patch, the shadows envelop me. The leaves are starting to fall, and they litter the ground with their small green and yellow shapes. There are flashes of golden yellow throughout the woods around me, as the deciduous trees get ready for their autumn ball, donning their colorful finery. It is early in the season yet, and the colors are not yet in their glory. There are hints of the upcoming celebration everywhere, though, and the sumac has swatches of red hiding amongst the green. But the green still dominates my senses, with the salal, and the ferns, and the moss everywhere, moist and soft and green.
Along the path, like lanterns lighting my way, there are mushrooms of all descriptions. There are tiny little white ones, on slender stalks, in groups of 4 or 5. I wonder if they talk to each other, in their ancient fungal language, and what it is that they say. There are larger, cream-colored mushrooms, with crinkly edges that lift up towards the sky. They capture the dripping of the trees, making little goblets of rainwater that they offer back up to the heavens. There are larger, white mushrooms, with rounded edges, that keep their gills hidden, like modest matrons. But the sheer whiteness of the rounded tops is the opposite of modesty, as they draw my eye straight toward them. They stand out, amongst the muted colors of the forest, and I wonder what they are connected to, and what eats them, and if they will be here next time that I walk this path. There are large reddish-purple mushrooms too, and they seem older, somehow, more experienced. They provide some forshadowing of the near future, when the sumac & vine maple turn crimson in their glory. But I think the mushrooms will win out, in the end, and keep their color throughout the rainy season. They are here for the long haul, these fungi, who wait so patiently throughout the summer for the days to shorten and the rains to return.
As I walk, I contemplate this thing called patience. I try to find my rhythm in this walking, recalling Thoreau’s call to “saunter” and I slow my pace, hoping to perceive more, and think less. I listen to my breath, and I hear the rain dripping, and I wonder about the trees, like so many alveoli, negotiating the exchange of carbon dioxide for oxygen. I find myself ever so grateful that I live in a time in which there are still trees, and I offer a prayer to the Great Spirit, that we will adjust our collective course in time to find a better relationship with Mother Earth.
I look up at the trees, these stately Douglas Firs, not even true firs, but we call them that nevertheless. Psuedotsuga, false hemlock, and more like a hemlock than a fir. True firs stick their cones straight up in the air, proud as peacocks. These Dougs hang theirs down, and shed needles all over my driveway every year. That surprised me, when I learned of it. My understanding of conifers was limited, before I moved to the PNW. I understood that they were ‘evergreen’ and had never stopped to notice that they shed their leaves just like their deciduous cousins. They are just a bit more conservative in their approach, only shedding some of them each year, saving enough to continue to harvest the light, and the oxygen, to grow stately, tall, and strong.
The clouds have come down to mingle with the Dougs. Some of the trees vanish from sight in the mist, and I wonder if they can harvest moisture from the air as I have heard that the redwoods do. Not that they need to, not this time of year. The rain is seeping into everything; their roots, their coats of moss, their leaves, the earth, my pants… After seven years in the desert, and the tendency to drought during our summers here, I always feel a sense of relief when the rainy season finally begins again.
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