It is morning in the Cascades, and the air is just cool enough for a sweatshirt in the sun. It smells of wood fires. The light is filtered through a thousand and one needles.
("Pine-like," I say.
"No, those are hawthorns," S. says.
"Right, pine-like."
"No, pines have needles in clumps," S. corrects me. "These have individual needles."
"Spruces have individual needles," I say, "and they are pine-like."
"They are conifers, but they are not pines. They are more fir-like."
"Firs are pine-like to me, too. They are all pine-like to me," I conclude. I will never a botanist make.)
There is a river burbling by, and I sit by it for a long time, mesmerized by one single little eddy in all its constant changes, until I lose the sun. I move to a huge log crossing the river and lie back on it, face to the sun, hearing the river flow beneath my back. The log is so big that I cannot feel the rushing water at all.
"I want this river in my backyard," I say.
The sky above the lake is crisscrossed with jet trails grown broad and lacy as the breeze slowly dissipates them. The lake, now far below after a panting climb (panting for me; S. and N. are unfairly in shape) up 700 feet in 0.7 miles starting at 7300 feet, is a multi-faceted aquamarine, like a sprawling piece of jewelry. "That's it." I think. "That's the color I want to keep with me forever." I take a million pictures of the same three scenes (right, left, center), over and over, but at last I give up and simply stare.
"I want this lake in my backyard," I say, or maybe it's S. or N., now, but we are all thinking it. None of us want to give up the moment. I could stay here, looking at this water, forever. It almost hurts to get back in the car and drive, and drive, and drive, back to freeway exits and alarm clocks.
("Pine-like," I say.
"No, those are hawthorns," S. says.
"Right, pine-like."
"No, pines have needles in clumps," S. corrects me. "These have individual needles."
"Spruces have individual needles," I say, "and they are pine-like."
"They are conifers, but they are not pines. They are more fir-like."
"Firs are pine-like to me, too. They are all pine-like to me," I conclude. I will never a botanist make.)
There is a river burbling by, and I sit by it for a long time, mesmerized by one single little eddy in all its constant changes, until I lose the sun. I move to a huge log crossing the river and lie back on it, face to the sun, hearing the river flow beneath my back. The log is so big that I cannot feel the rushing water at all.
"I want this river in my backyard," I say.
The sky above the lake is crisscrossed with jet trails grown broad and lacy as the breeze slowly dissipates them. The lake, now far below after a panting climb (panting for me; S. and N. are unfairly in shape) up 700 feet in 0.7 miles starting at 7300 feet, is a multi-faceted aquamarine, like a sprawling piece of jewelry. "That's it." I think. "That's the color I want to keep with me forever." I take a million pictures of the same three scenes (right, left, center), over and over, but at last I give up and simply stare.
"I want this lake in my backyard," I say, or maybe it's S. or N., now, but we are all thinking it. None of us want to give up the moment. I could stay here, looking at this water, forever. It almost hurts to get back in the car and drive, and drive, and drive, back to freeway exits and alarm clocks.
No comments:
Post a Comment