Last night I awoke to the light of the near-full moon. I was roasting inside my sleeping bag so I wrestled my way out of my longjohns and afterwards climbed out of the tent to take a leak under the stars. Hood's peak shone white in the moon's heady, ethereal wash.
***
I recall yesterday morning, during the rain, seeing a doe and two tiny fawns ahead on the trail, shrouded in an evanescent mist. The fawns were unable, it appeared, to climb the bank uphill off the trail, so the three of them trotted ahead on the trail, stopping around each bend to see if we still approached. Finally, the doe clammered uphill and the two fawns disappeared down the bank to our right. As we passed, dripping, under our umbrellas, the silhouette of the deer stood over us, watching.
***
The stop in Portland and these past couple days back on the trail have brought about a sort of realization. Unexpectedly, I feel that a door has been closed, something for nearly a year left unfinished, finally, subtly moved to the side. I'm not entirely sure I can put words to the feeling. Returned to the trail, I notice a calm resolution. I am relieved to return. It is a coming home that I hadn't expected here, now. Partly, I think that I was anxious for this trip back to Portland. Part of me had been longing for a life left behind throughout these past 9 months. I wondered whether I ever really should have left on that Amtrak train at all last September, whether I hadn't packed up and moved away from a real home in some vain pursuit of a mere pipe dream.
***
We hiked around Hood this morning and arrived at Timberline lodge where we enjoyed a cup of coffee and a stroll around the beautiful, historic building. Teams of teenaged snowboarders slogged around in their heavy, baggy clothes at the lodge, sucking down extra large sodas and eating cheeseburgers at 10 am. We scored a few items out of the hiker box and relaxed a bit before stopping back in at the upscale lodge restaurant to say hello to Heidi, a through-hiker whom we had hiked with in Southern California and who had gotten of the trail to make some dough. It was nice to chat briefly. She is living just down the trail from the lodge, still sleeping in her tent. Beats paying rent, I guess.
The afternoon was pleasant. We had a long conversation about the imminent collapse of contemporary international power structures. It's great when Eliza gets fired up on the trail -- the time just flies.
We found a campsite this evening along the eastern shore of Timothy Lake -- another location which we had visited last year during one of Eliza's vists to Portland, one we have been looking forward to. It is Saturday night and there are a couple of groups of other people spread out over the area here. Most seem to be high school aged. One crew of six or seven were making a lot of noise, cursing and throwng rocks and garbage around where they were hanging out. I walked over to survey the area for good tent sites (and to check out their provisions -- beer, rum, coke, chips) and say hello. A girl with big 70s style shades walked past me towards the cooler. "Hey," I said, "How you doing?" "Oh, I'm pretty wasted, man," she mumbled in terse response. Eliza, meanwhile. was feeling pretty rocked from the day's hike and wanted nothing at all to do with a pack of intoxicated teenie boppers. As we debated whether to shove on, however, the teensters made a move of their own and started packing up and heading out. They made a generally raucus and inappropriately loud and profane retreat towards the trail, but I didn't mind. As the last three walked by shouting, "You fuckers better get back here and help carry some of this beer!" I made my move. "Dude, my girl and I here can help lighten your load a little. Want to kick us down some brews?" I asked, affecting what I deduced to be the correct set of colloquialisms. And sure enough, the cooler man thought that this would be a sweet way of making his slacker buddies pay for leaving him to heft their leftovers -- give their shit away.
Once they were gone, we nabbed their spot overlooking the water. Unfortunately, we inheritted their smoking mound of broken glass and garbage as well. Ah, the kids from Gresham, what a conscientious bunch.
***
I've been up reading and writing and sipping on my cold cans of Icehouse. It's late and this novel is mighty disturbing. Lights out, he says.
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