May 26, 2020, campground near Concrete, Washington
We begin with all sorts of enthusiasm to start a new adventure, whether it be travel or a new skill we want to master, a project we want to accomplish and or finally finish. We didn’t imagine this year would include what’s rapidly becoming a pandemic, that so much of our lives would be put on hold. School kids sent home and office workers, cooks out of job. It is early May and there is no use pretending this isn’t happening. We must all find ways to cope, to find a creative spark to help us adapt. There’s only so much cooping up a person can do. I’m going to the woods.
The sun is shining now through the tall cedars in long and dappled rays, the first sunshine in several days. Here self-contained at a woodsy campsite. I am sitting outdoors on a new lightweight aluminum chair. My camper, Snowball, is resting calmly in the dapply breeze stroked by the shadows of cedar boughs, my salmon colored bike hunched against her white flanks. And what a breeze, it’s kicking up and the air is a billow of cottonwood fluff all twinkly in the light like a million Tinkerbells here in the deep forest. If I were a nature photographer with all that expensive equipment and determination of purpose, I’d try to make a movie of this, it’s sort of like the underwater photography we’ve seen where plankton by the bezillions float by in a similar slanted light, but watery blue and this is green, all plethora of greens between the dark brown stately trunks of quiet cedar.
Oh, let’s not lose the wilderness, our souls need this. We need the deep forest and the underwater blues, the reefs and corals and the transatlantic trench, whatever that is, the Columbia bar, the lemurs of Madagascar, the koalas in Australia and the children at the border. Think of them, the children at the border, at all borders, and their hungry parents. We all count or no one counts.
The carpet of needles on the forest floor is reddish brown, the color of the trunks of the trees. Now, rather than smooth ground, the carpet is bunched in places where little rivers of rain ran in the last few days. Think of those poor people in Michigan who are flooded out from the breaching of the dams. That could happen anywhere and perhaps we are overdue. But where’s the news about that? Today I went and got tested for Coronavirus. Every time I go to the testing site at the college, where I volunteer one day a week, I am amazed at how few people seem to be coming, or else the system is so efficient that no crowding occurs. Isn’t everyone as worried as I?
There are hardly any campers here, not so last week before the Memorial Day holiday. I’d come up on Wednesday which was quiet, but late Thursday a number of big rigs arrived and parked beside me with what looked like a stair-step of 15 young female cousins, some wore masks, others did not, but they were quiet; the drenching rain subduing any high-jinx. This morning the sun shines again and I rode my bike for an hour on the Cascade rails-to-trails trail and saw not a soul.
The trail runs from Sedro Woolley to Concrete. In places the rocks so close the passengers on the old train must have needed to hold their breath, but what a beautiful ride: Sword ferns unfolding by the trail and maidenhair ferns up high where water gushes between the cliff rocks; dark pink wild geranium in full tilt, wide stretches of forget-me-nots azure blue in the sun, foxglove ready to bloom; dark wet pools reflecting the cedars and canary grass, and a thousand maple seedlings popping through the humus. No photos can match the simple beauty nor the feeling of wonder. In spite of all, Mother Nature does her work, paints her pictures, entices the eye, calls us to visit.
I have a little plan, so happy to have found this place of escape. It is still early in the season and it was cold in the night, glad to have my warmest sleeping bag. Maybe it won’t seem so calm when more people come to camp. For now, I’ll camp three nights a week, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. I’m thinking of Snowball as a cabin in the woods, a studio. I bring old journals and read through them to see , published in 2017
if I can glean what might be useful for this strange new chapter of social isolation and perplexity about the future: will we get sick? How much risk should we take? What secret strengths do we have?
Weeks ago a word came to me, from the news, apex. They were looking at the curve of the Coronavirus and talking about the apex, flattening the curve. Is this the apex of our lives? Is this the best it will ever be? Is it all downhill from here and like Sisyphus we breathe free and clear before turning to descend before another climb?. That I was able to ride my bike for an hour yesterday with my new hip not four months old is a good sign. The internet is spotty here, but a headline pops up, “Will the Coronavirus ever disappear?” We must count each good sign and keep a spring in our step, that’s for sure.
Last night I read through a packet of what I put together years ago, Months of May, Cycles, Transitions…. So many questions then, using observations of nature to try to ground myself and find meaning. Does it help to look back? In my little Snowball, every gesture has a meaning and a focus. This simple travel, as before on other long journeys, has a “Chop Wood, Carry Water” Zen like overlay. Live simply and be thankful. Remain alert, as my son used to say, the world needs more lerts.
Looking around now I see some new campers. A tanned older woman, bravely I must say, wears a two- piece red bathing suit and makes her way to her camper door. I wonder where’s she been on this chilly day. An older gentleman, in his bathing suit, also red, stands in front of the door and stretching out one arm and then the other has sunscreen or bug repellant applied by an unseen individual hidden by a fluttering blue tarp. The gentleman has a big white beard like a Santa and his gray hair is up in a knot on top of his head. There are a couple of pre-teen kids who lurk past me, one on a bike riding languidly and the other with long braided hair, glasses and a baseball cap races to catch up. Around they go.
Last evening, I started, upon a friend’s recommendation, the book, The 57 Bus. Yesterday in the afternoon when a chattering family of campers arrived near me I went indoors and lay on the bed and read until I ate a cold supper, then flopped down to read again until almost 10:00 o’clock. It’s a must read, The 57 Bus by Dashka Slater. “One teenager in a skirt, one teenager with a lighter, one moment that changes their lives forever.” We have so much to learn, how difficult at times to put away our judgmental voice. Just as this spring unfolds heralding a summer of uncertainty, we too must unfold, finding ways to be more open and accepting, responsible. “Ya, sure,” my neighbor says frequently, “Everyone is different, ya got to make the best of it.” She gives my overgrown garden the eye.
These past few months have certainly changed our lives. Early in March, our local Skagit Valley Chorale became national news as the Coronavirus kicked up its pace. A friend of mine who sings in the group and carpools with others thought she’d drive herself to rehearsal in early March but at the last minute decided to stay home. The woman who regularly sings next to her, died of the virus, 52 people became ill. My friend said, “I’m not leaving my house, I’ll see you when this is over,” she said. Where will this pandemic lead? And whom do we listen to? Science, science, let’s follow the science.
Meanwhile, I’ll isolate myself in my little camper part of every week, come east to this campground and basically, hide out. Build a little fire when the weather’s fine, ride my bike, read all day when it is not. On the trail, wear my mask and stay distant. Talk on the phone for connection and comfort.
I took a little ride this morning to find a place to paint another terrible watercolor. Packed the art supplies in the bike basket, strung a little red chair over my shoulder and wobbled down the trail to find an inspirational scene. I’ll have to say, my paintings are getting weirder. This was an attempt to catch the
mossy cedar branches lit by the bright noon sun. I can’t say much for the results; if the painting is shrunk
to an inch square in size it looks pretty good on the iPhone. Perhaps in a next life I’ll design postage stamps. After all, I’ve been photographing post offices, you know, surely there’s a connection.
The other evening a young friend visited my camp and as an orange sun slanted low behind the trees, sitting far apart across the campsite, she chattered away filling me in with the details of her life, the past fifteen or so years, her children and their accomplishments. We’d recently connected in a Zoom meeting. I suspect there’ll be a lot more of those in the days ahead. She said she’d like to come again next week and bring her bicycle and we could ride along the trail. Yes, I said. Do come back. We’ll stay apart, mask up and think good thoughts.
By the way, while I settled in to paint today staring into the trees, came a pair of Western Tanagers; then suddenly a lot more bird chatter and four or five others tanagers. I wondered if it was a family out practicing their new skills. Lovely birds, red and yellow, Western Tanagers. This is quite a time we are entering, every family must practice new skills, masks and being cooped up, waving to our relatives through a window, experiencing untimely loss. Take care, my friends, take care. Let’s stay in touch, we need one another.
With thanks to Suzanne Butler for visiting camp and recommending
the book, The 57 Bus by Dashka Slater
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