Rainier, to Paradise ice caves, 29 aug 77 …

The caves much smaller than any photos I’d seen suggested, 4 to 5 feet tall, perhaps 10 feet across … first time they’ve opened since ’70 … red sign on approach: ENTRY IS NOT RECOMMENDED … DANGER OF COLLAPSING ICE.

Yet so many footprints and a broken Fresca bottle on the rocks.

A stream disgorging … so much dripping water … yet silent, except for that … blue-green color within white nearly glowing ice,

~*~

DANGER

DANCER

Fresh snow on Adams, obvious 60 miles away …

~*~

Farmlands where neither barn nor house can be seen in any direction.

FOR SALE
4,574 ACRES
PRIME LAND
BOTH SIDES OF ROAD

~*~

Driftwood clouds over desert.

endless vistas.

Or as ups and downs, joys and sorrows

Enough for one life

~*~

~*~

Louie [a renowned Swiss-born mountaineer in our Meeting] prefers the east side of the Cascades, wants to hike Bismarck this week: 18 miles, 4,000 feet up, leave Yakima at 4 a.m. to “assure a good start” — a “good day’s work.”

~*~

24:X

One man in the county road crew working in the Canyon kept checking on his fishing pole propped up beside the orange work truck parked beside the river.

~*~

26:X

The green light around the moon

“When Boise Cascade and other logging companies claim they need all the public forest lands to maintain their present employment, they forget to tell you about the automation they plan to employ — eliminating 90 percent of those jobs anyway. BC’s Small Log mill in Yakima is a good illustration of that hypocrisy.”

The sawmill was sold in 2004 and shut down in 2005, with the plywood operation closing the next year.

The lack of “affordable” timber was cited.

 ~*~

I remember being mesmerized one chilly late-afternoon in October as I watched spider-web filaments floating around the summit of Mount Stuart. From what I’ve read, they must have cosmic rays back-lit by the sinking sun. The mountain stands much taller than the photo suggests.

~*~

15:X, sometime day after my Mount Stuart hike …

Chinook Pass closed today = temporary = perhaps all winter

Washington Pass, the same

~*~

“Going down the Columbia, the reason the Cascade mountains being so named becomes apparent on the steep sides of that tremendous chasm through which the gathered waters seek the ocean … numerous and beautiful little falls which pour from every crevice, every height, and frequently from the very mountain top.” — John Lambert, topographer with the Pacific Railroad Exploration in 1853

His time was optimal for rain or melting …

~*~

77% of the glaciers in the contiguous U.S. are in Washington state

Neoglaciation, about 5,000 years ago and also in the 19^th century

~*~

24:XI, Thanksgiving Day … our first (and only) attempt on snowshoes (bear paws) …

Snowballs bouncing downslope

~*~

4:XII

Two dozen elk near I-90: could see their breath, cold puffs, snorting

Snowpack washed away by rain, muddy anger, mudslides on the roadways, I-90 closed most of Friday, fat cascades everywhere

~*~

18:XII / To the mountains today:

• Highway closed at Sawmill Campground (Sawmill Flats, Sawmill Creek)
• River rushing, speeding downstream
• Tamarack fire odor in the air: somebody’s home
• We parked, climbed a steep snowy hillside, and slid down (glissand) on our butts in ponchos .. great fun
• On the drive home, stopped twice to watch elk herds high up on snowy ridges at Oak Creek preservation (across the river) — 47 in one herd, perhaps another 60 in the second
• Evidence of flooding
• Erosion beside the road
• Rocks on the pavement
• A steel bridge to vacation homes washed out and left sitting downstream
• Another “Bridge for Sale,” the pilings beneath it askew
• A third bridge once marked “No Hunting or Trespassing, Do Not Ask,” swept away altogether

The name Mount Stuart was originally applied to Glacier Peak (by General McCellan of Civil War fame) but a cartographer made a mistake, putting the name on the wrong peak, where it’s stuck

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.

 Note my realization, in revisiting these journals, of how important my vacations were … the principal advantage in “being management” was in having four weeks free … and that month away was when I grew, experienced, discovered, replenished … Just getting outdoors, rather than the office, was important to me. 

Still, here’s a sequence of my outdoor exposure in 1979.

8:V

We hardly noticed when the ticking irrigation spraying of the orchard began. It all seems so natural to us by now in this desert.

The familiar sound of summer: watering the orchard.

Descending from Rattlesnake Ridge, intercepted by an old man in a white Jeep. Dressed Sunday neat. German maybe Polish accent: “This is private land. The sprays are very dangerous. The public land is over there,” further from my place or this perimeter road. Yes, those sprays are poisonous. They spray our house, we lost a cat. And then we sell our apples.

Trip back from Quarterly Meeting via Stevens Pass, snowpack and clouds making the mountains seem taller, more breath-taking …

Through Stevens Pass, watching for small tunnels in the slopes — mine shafts I’d never noticed before. Once I’d see one, there would be three — a hardhat exiting from one! a dozen more hiding in the forest. Whispering, luring: GOLD!

~*~

Many mountain outings.

The Jorg project, a poetry publishing opportunity. 

Employment pressures.

The “twin bridges” at Selah have multiplied: the Interstate highway made them four, plus the four railroad spans — an octet of spans over trout waters

How many times have I meant to “record” the twin bridges observation? But this is the first time I’ve followed through.

~*~

Zenny over Saturday night. The two of us prepping to go hiking Sunday on Darland Mountain, “High Road 6,972 feet,” second highest in the state. [I had driven to the summit on one of my first outings here, perhaps the first.

Clouds up, all around. Frost-killed ground cover.

~*~

The view from Darland included Goat Rocks close-up.  Snowy Mountain, the highest peak in the remote attraction, rises 7,880 above sea level. You get none of the breathtaking sensation from this U.S. Forest Service photo, but that’s not uncommon when it comes to mountains; the camera typically flattens vertical majesty.

~*~

29:V:79

Our Meeting campout was relaxing, delightful, despite motorcyclists and horses. Lynn’s friend [and future husband and all-too-soon widower, his second time] was beautiful, tender though with his big beard and big build could suggest a “bruiser.” Skip, admittedly, “Could have gone to Berkeley to teach, but it probably would have destroyed me.”

McLain Lake was down 12 feet from last year — surface a third to a quarter of what it was then. Why wasn’t it salty?

Was its seepage feeding springs down in the canyon somewhere?

Tadpoles swam in serpentine schools.

“Lynn said if I was very lucky, I’d get to come to her favorite spot.”

“Well, Skip, you’re very lucky.”

At twilight, as some of us sat by the campfire, others were off as a recorder quartet sounding around the lake. Skip, playing baritone or bass, “Find us something easy.”

For me, this was like sitting beside a beaver pond listening as frogs regained their boldness and joined the Baroque-era tunes and finally overwhelmed it as three geese took flight.

Yet how do I see “that of Christ” in the trail-bikers intent upon racing anywhere?

[Meeting attender] Roger Solomon lost three-quarters of his cherries to frost when the wind machine failed.

Worship atop Meeks Table after a stiff climb up the scree, adding to anticipation.

Elk and deer tracks everywhere, the bitterroot out, too, befitting our custom.

Within the shared solitude, itself a fruit of our effort of getting there, a flash from Bly’s Kabir notes came to my mind, where he retranslated Bible: “Our Father, who art in spirit,” and in this instant of nature-worship, the “God so loved the world” to delight in every flower and ant seems right, far more than a Heaven off in some future.

As we sat in our informal circle, occasionally gazing out over clouds rolling in over snow-peaked mountains and the chasm betwixt that and us, I thought of two kinds of Americans: those who see wilderness as something to conquer, flatten, overrun, destroy — speed through — mine, log it (Rock! And roll!). Versus those who would enter its harmony and keep it forever. Even more than our classics. We came and come for the latter.

The coming Oil Shortage may switch the battle back to our advantage. If their dozers and tanks run out of fuel.

~*~

Driving up I had been surprised by all the prickly pear in bloom, ten times what I had seen yet.

My love is like a prickly pear, beautiful when she blossoms, deadly as a rattlesnake if you lose your balance, be careful not to cross her!

22:XII:79

First-day, first day of winter …

TURN, TURN TOWARD THE LIGHT

a beautiful day, climb Rattlesnake Ridge

the immenseness of the Valley

(where did that plate glass by the Jeep trail come from?)

Christ, on the peak, being tempted to accept the city below

(city = civilization = wealth, power, comfort)

me, would I turn toward the empty hills? Their inhospitable, uncomforting, austere, rocky and tufted ridges ever beyond — away, away — or toward, toward what?

Georgia O’Keeffe, seeing the symbol of desert as bone, was so right — life here is presented as leavings rather than fleshy — brown stalks, blanched scats, snake skins and their bones, trackings. Yet jackrabbit, pheasant, rattlesnake, and coyote know the ways hawk flies, along with holes in the earth for nests and dens.

The Waiting Scriptures

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.

Early Sept … Came over today, my first vacation travel with Kitty and me only. We were off for British Columbia, meaning Canada.

Lunch at the Tumwater Café, German reminding me of good Ohio farm cooking — Grandma Hodson’s yet, as Kitty asserted, “But not Mom Moran!”

Yakima Fruit Stand, “Your canning headquarters,” on U.S. 2, Snohomish, on way to Everett

And our luck today, arriving at Keystone ferry as the boat’s in dock, nearly loaded. Expecting to see it pull out, instead the ticket seller said, “Congratulations, you made it — with a minute and a half to spare.”

[That was the state ferry across Puget Sound, getting us to Port Townsend.]

Spent $40 at Imprint bookstore, on poetry, mostly, and the owner called Sam Hamill and told me how to get out to the Copper Canyon Press to be there at 9 the next morning. (Good luck, again.0

That, after (good luck) we had taken the next-to-last room at the Tides Inn, with a room overlooking Puget Sound …

Saw my first seal on my trip, a dog-head in the water until a real dog started barking.

~*~

12 Sept, met Sam at the press, Fort Warden State Park for the arts, beautiful old wooden structures pleasantly restored (wood heat in the print shop) as he set type by hand while I watched. Word of a fine-sounding symposium coming up April 9-13 — Snyder, perhaps.

Sez send him the mss in Oct or Nov … he, too, has had a busy summer. Has an earring, hard wrinkles, tattoos MOM …

luck again … boarded MV Cobo from waiting line, Port Angeles-Victoria. Any later, we would have missed it and had to wait five hours. As it was, a 45-minute wait. Ferry rocking, side to side, hard to walk, even read.

Couples playing cards.

Native next to us: no ear, just a nub of scar tissue. Enough to hold his glasses up.

Outside, sky clears. Coastal clouds low on the mountains.

Seagulls, how can I miss them?

Porpoises.
Whitecap followed
by black shining streak.

Brentwood Inn on Brentwood Bay — $26 for a suite w/ kitchenette

Something so purely out of the early ’50s or even ‘30s.

[In my memories, it’s an inland pond.]

In our room: TV ads remade for Canadian audiences: new accents and no Blacks. On radio, hearing familiar CBC nighttime programs plus daytime classical.

Butchart Gardens, in former limestone quarries ($4/person)

Almost too beautiful, though overwhelmed by blue-haired women and equally stout and frail dim-witted men.

BEGONIAS, ESP. THOUGH ROSES MUST BE SOMETHING IN PRIME.

The English/Scottish traditions so obvious here: everything relatively safe: motels windows unlocked, acceptance of cashiers’ cheques and credit cards with no hassle. But when Kitty dashes ahead through oldsters at the gardens, we hear a mumbled “rudeness” behind us and I thought of the veiled violence of Britain (the righteous or self-righteous stiffness coming down on nonconformists).

“PLEASE LEAVE UMBRELLAS OUTSIDE”

Though most visitors seem to be most impressed by the formal gardens or fully blooming flower beds. which could be located just about anywhere, what I found most stunning was the reclaimed quarry.  Photos by Bill Wilson via Wikimedia Commons.

~*~

Missed HIGH TEA SERVICE at the gardens by five minutes ($4/person: “JUST ENOUGH TO SPOIL YOUR DINNER” tea/sandwiches/crumpets) and debated about $8/per buffet later, deciding even with cold turkey, salmon, beef it’s still cafeteria, so rather than wait another 3 hours for the famed lights splaying the quarry and fountains, off we went off to downtown, nosed around (including opening restaurant doors, taking a sniff or two, and returning to the sidewalk. After narrowing our choices to two, we settled on a tiny [modest, dimly lighted, dark red interior] French restaurant — I stayed in English, to not embarrass myself, my tongue tightening up too much even on the menu. [Forget grammar and tenses.] We even ordered a bottle of wine but were served another but excellent label — Ackerman? — food unbelievably fine: salmon for me, lamb for her [what I remember most, though, was her stewed tomato — something I never, ever would have thought could be heavenly] — then mousse au chocolat and good black coffee. Over the meal, her quizzing me about what if she’d have an affair — one of those impossible conversations. [Looking back over these entries, I realize it wasn’t about if but rather resolving the recent past.]

[I suppose this could be rendered as an intense short story or even a chapter, but the development no longer appeals to me. Too much work? Let me file it away under Missed Opportunities.]

Afterward, strolling the street again, I see a tall ridge in the Cascades behind downtown Victoria — not Baker’s profile but high the same way. Back in the orchard again, looking at maps, I’ll see it must be the elusive Mount Glacier. It conforms to configuration. Everything so amazing.

Had wondered earlier in the year about spending time in British Columbia [with my mountaineering focus, meaning the Canadian Rockies] but now, by accident, I’ve done it, except on the coastal side.

Later, viewing a James Crockett Victory Garden visit in the gardens — “nearly perfect” — so enjoyable to see where we’ve been.

13 Sept. — Wednesday, noon

Toured the Provincial Museum on the waterfront today — magnificent presentation, 3 floors: totem poles 4 stories high outside, or cur in half inside — some viewed best from the escalators.

Lodge houses inside with interior totem poles.

So many redheads and blue eyes, the Scottish factor, methinks. Within the museum, bump into a Japanese woman, “Excuse me.”

“You are very welcome.”

(Berlitz embarrassment.)

Mining display has detailing so realistic: cold air blowing in, a dim-lighted air shaft, a rocky passage like a prospector’s worked vein …

Ubiquitous Japanese visitors with cameras, waiting for the ferry. This time, a small one that without a full load, sails tilted on the cabin side.

COASTAL SCENE

A scone, with her tea.
Salmon sandwich, cookie, tea for me.
Clouds. Wet haze. Evergreens. Light gray.

With a yellow Volkswagen
microbus down the ramp
a ferry floats out, away.

And then a Canadian ferry trip from Victoria to Vancouver.

Buffet chattering dishes.

Yet too much to eat, $4.50.

God won’t let you in to Heaven
if you pile up treasures
a single charred mask
in a glass case
stands as an offering

At the beach house tonight, Tulalip Reservation, Turtle Island declaration, so many thick memories for Kitty

Another ten years will Californians be as detested as New Yorkers overrunning so many other states? Loud, obnoxious, insensitive?

LA center of the universe projection:

The world as backlots
even before TV’s
Walton’s Mountain
back before Walmart

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.

Our landlords’ younger son and I hiked to Camp Muir, a 5,000-foot or so ascent in 4½ miles, then back again. Nearly all on snowfield with rock-pile islands within it. Amazed by so much alpine flowering within it. On one island, clear streams gurgling through moss and blossoms.

As I noted, 23:VII:78, Sunday [I’m assuming the climb was on a Saturday, now that I had those off]:

A stiff, hard climb. We both stopped many times to rest / catch our breath, then discovered that by moving slowly, in “rest step,” we made better time, even with still needing rests … we were passed by skiers who climb to the camp and then ski down, and by climbers with full packs. [how humbling!]

But we made it! Left the ranch at 3 a.m., stopped for breakfast and gasoline, catching the first pink rays on Rainier as we came through White Pass and then the first rays on Adams in Stevens Pass …

At the higher altitude, the sky becomes the clearest, deepest blue, almost the color of this pen but clear, like a dense copper-sulfate solution. (Ward would also mention this about his Rainier climb.)

Muir, “cloud camp,” is nearly Tibetan — two rock shelters in a barren, snowy saddle, plus a few other shelters for shitting, mountaineering supplies, and a ranger. Five ravens fly in, like hawks or vultures on battered wings …

How lucky we were to have a clear day. Only the highest clouds, nothing on the mountain itself. Adams, Goat Rocks, St. Helens all clear, even distant Hood. Above Seattle, though, the purple-exhaust soup rising perhaps to 8,000 feet. Fantastic views, too, of Nisqually Glacier, with its pale blue electrical ice …

I was surprised by the number of people we saw above timberline — 300, perhaps. Party after party, black dots working toward the crest or returning.

By late afternoon, the atmosphere thickened; we lost sight of Hood in the haze.

~*~

I loved using the ice axe I borrowed for this outing, felt it gave me so much control as we carved our steps upward in the slick cold. I even felt armed and protected. The ax proved especially helpful on our descent. We wrapped our ponchos around our butts and slid down the slopes, using our ax as a rudder and brake. Glissade, as it’s called, bouncing and spraying up snow as we go. Still, we got wet.

Despite sunburn precautions — zinc oxide over our face, gloves to protect our hands, wide-brim hats (“Say, Cowboy,” I address Anders), we were both burned on our faces by the strong reflection off the ice and snow, as well as the thinner air not breaking the rays …

And then, as we approached the Paradise lodge, the mobs of tourists plus rangers directing traffic, like a Central Park in Manhattan.

The tourists looked at us as if we were Bigfoot or space aliens. Zinc oxide? “I’ve been drinking the clouds.”

Later, I was surprised by how many skilled climbers go in shorts only, achieving the deepest of tans.

[I had forgotten we did that twice.]

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.

Actually, contrary to what I would note later, I did get out into the wild that summer, just not nearly as frequently as I had hoped.

North Cascades

Summer Solstice
once again

Cornices — the snow overhangs at a mountain crest, hence the classical architectural imitation: capital, shaft, etc.

This trip turned into a pilgrimage to Snyder’s lookout experiences … Marblemount and Desolation Peak are in the mix.

Diablo Lake, in a Wikimedia photo. Ross Lake sits just upstream from it. Their waters really are this color, due to mineral “flour” that washes in.

The cross-state highway closed every winter …

Saw Forest Service packhorses going in at Mazama, two big trucks — up to supply the lookouts? Or pack the guys in?

Smokejumpers Camp and Airport 5

Imagine undertaking a journey where there are no road signs, no maps, no guidebooks — you don’t even know how far to the next town or inn or camp site with clean water. Much less a gas station, restaurant, or motel. You ask people and hope they know.

Now, for a spiritual journey?

23:VI:78

Vacation, at last — too exhausted to do anything (laundry in the washhouse, to free socks to pack) — almost afraid to leave the office, like a mother hen —

Still have to pack up (leave Sunday?), should I read or not? Swing around Montana, Idaho?

Sunday

After going to Thriftway, getting enough food for two weeks in the wild — things I never have at home — got cans of 7-Up, vegetables, soups, juices, puddings …

Wandered up along the Upper Columbia with tall alpine jagged escarpments dusted with snow behind and beyond the bunchgrass ridges over Wenatchee …

Hurricane Canyon Orchard …

The Yakima drops about 700 feet between the city of Yakima and the Columbia River — that’s a lot of energy siphoned into the orchards

The Columbia River threads past Chelan Falls and the beginnings of Chelan Lake on the left. A few orchards are nestled in along the river just below that. The large blocks are farmlands to the east of the river. Photo by Doc Searls via Wikimedia Commons.

Lady of the Lake, up Lake Chelan (original spelling was something like “Tslain”), leaves 8:30 each morning for Stehekin — barge takes cars up once a week, 8 a.m. Wednesday …

Friends Church at Quincy — half an hour earlier, I would have stopped — in blue jeans, red flannel shirt, and whiskers. [I didn’t yet know what to make with Quakers whose worship includes service by pastors.]

Vacation, reestablishing potential after being pushed against the wall. That is, freedom and cleansing. Leading, giving orders, following routine being functionary of choices already taken by others.

Somehow, the Methow Valley felt much like the trip Moon and I made up to Towanda from Williamsport, Pennsylvania, a forgotten land; here, silver mining gave out by 1890 …

Yet orchards surrounded by six-foot high deer/elk fencing, young trees staked up against the wind; even mature trees supported by lines of wire and fencing …

Twisp, Winthrop decked out as Wild West town — boom town clapboard false-fronts — me, arriving with “what-if” worries about home, such as fire … manuscripts and journals, especially …

Amazement of seeing two solo deer hopping, all four legs still, just the hooves springing all at once.

A single Douglas fir crosscut puts the felled tree at 1,335 years old. Rip ‘em out, they’re gone forever. As long as our up-teen great-great-great-etcetea-grandchildren …

Drove up over Harts Pass (6,206 BM) — nearly camped there in a patch between snow and a table buried within it, but whiteout coming in. Remembering how cold the Hoh was, the year before, along Pacific Coast,  pushed on to a site called Chancellor only to find, after a long drive bruising and cutting the tires, the road was washed out. Nearly camped in a secluded spot up there, beside a raging torrent of an icy stream, but noticed a bad cut in my left front tire and realized if it went flat there, I’d been in trouble … [this in the days before cell phones, much less any reception there] …

So back, up and over, to safer sites — of 16 Forest Service sites on the map, only two were open — the third one down was closed by a pile of rocks bulldozed up across the road …

Silver Star Mountain photo by Ron Clausen via Wikimedia.

Monday afternoon, Silver Fir Campground, Baker National Forest

Find a site beside the north fork of the Nooksack River, park my car, cross a footbridge to my tent and table … delightfully royal, sitting here in shorts only, listening to birds and water

[Note that I go off without her … maybe she had classes? No matter, I was free!]

Note of Coal Creek, Soup Creek, and Washboard Creek in the Cascades …

Drove up to the Baker ski area, then hiked six miles in snow up to see Baker, which was hidden behind a high ridge yet once seen, it’s a massive, overpowering, and heavily/thickly glaciated peak … Shuksan, at 9,127 feet about 1,500 feet shorter than Baker, is separated by an incredible chasm …

Hiking, God, how I hate switchbacks! Every step seems like my last (my mature poems, sez Phlum, will be sky blue and hemlock green with a touch of snow at the top).

Climbing to Welcome Pass, hoping this slope (sun-facing) will be snow-free — amazing problem for late June, “trail should be snow-free by mid-August,” booklet description of another path.

During the climb, some great views  of Mount Shuksan and its gorgeous pond way below me.

Keep hearing cascades but can’t see the chute —

At the pass, when the forest finally opens up to what should be sub-alpine terrain, I instead face a six-foot deep snow bank … where up from there, the High Divide Trail supposedly takes off — 6,000 feet elevation.

What I saw was something like this photo taken later in the season at Cougar Divide by Walter Siegmund via Wikimedia Commons. The three highest summits on the skyline right of center are Tomyhoi Peak (left, 7451 feet), American Border Peak (8026 feet) and Mount Larabee (right, 7868 feet). The highest peak left of center is Mount McGuire (2019 m) in British Columbia. The long ridge in the middle distance is the High Divide.

As I noted, what I beheld included an unbelievable valley below me to the north — huge glaciers on mountains I can’t identify. One mountain near here has a lookout perched atop; need my binoculars to see it.

Then stumble back down switchbacks — dodn’t see another person the whole trip.

“This is a very steep old miners trail.”

Riprap Creek flows down from Sourdough! (map reading)

28 June (Wednesday)

Realizing I’m 30, the next ten years being (traditionally) the most important in a writer’s career, and yet having the feeling I will stretch that, by shifting at 40, like Brahms from chamber music to symphonies, from poetry to novels (and perhaps a kind of Western, at that, from a much different order)

Flecks of gold in the sand (real gold: there had been a gold rush in this valley in the late 1800s

75- to 80-degree slopes … and they’re heavily forested

The droning of the river isn’t anything like the drone of a motor.

(the latter like an evil dentist dressed in black)

Nothing really matters right now, and that’s strange for me. Haven’t even heard classical music for three days now.

Coming through rainy North Cascades, this time stopping in Diabolo, Sourdough Trail (# whatever), “Sourdough Lookout 5,” thinking it’s been almost 25 years since he was up there (spotted the lookout, a tiny prick on a long monster loaf, snow still deep around it). Thinking how personal his work’s become to me — shit, I hadn’t even begun kindergarten when he was up here, how it would be another dozen years before approval as a national park or 20 before the North Cascades Highway opened (and that being closed each winter by snow) … how accessible all of this has become in the years since: yoga, Zen, too. Along with the setbacks: “14-year-old perfect master,” TM, Hare Krshna.

“a place that seems to have a more interesting past than its present”

30:VI

Home again

Air out sleeping bag, ground cloth, tent

Launder my smoky, sweaty clothes

Unpack and repack: sort through books and maps

So rare to have time to read: that sense of leisure

Yesterday, driving nearly 500 miles, a storm along the Columbia — the smell of summer rain and thunder — low clouds swirling, water gray, reminding me of the Hudson … should I have stayed on through the 4^th and its mobs?

Rain in the orchard: how beautiful the back porch sounds …

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.