I read The Oregonian PCT blog this afternoon from the Rogue Valley Coffee Roasters in Ashland. Mark wrote on Friday, I believe, of the unexpected twists and turns that come up during the day as it unfolds out on the trail, the subtle shifts that, sifting by, seem to change everything.
The shifting winds blow in suddenly and rain clouds block out the sweet setting sun. The jagged, tough tread treacherously turns your light two-steppin' feet into a blistered, broken wreckage. A leisurely lunch opens onto a loose, new day after a morose, lonely morning and what seemed like a season of laconic, uninspired solitude cracks like an egg shell into fresh, sunny spring of conversation. The discovery of a cooler of cold soda is like finding a thick, gem-laden treasure chest unextpectedly stashed alongside an old pirate getaway route and a long-supressed, subterranean appetite surfaces to suck in the golden shine of the bountiful booty . . .
The moments which mean the most to me are usually of a much subtler mien, however. The obvious factors become hum drum -- surely part of the whole mind game of living, anyway -- but, the truer reagents are those which hit home swiftly but without any crack of the bat.
A lens filter thrown over the frame is a chance meeting and word of an old fellow hiker. A break in the mosquito bug war is icing on a cake which we had been too afraid to even approach before the blood-thirsty, red-eyed, airborn sea finally, fantastically, parted.
Thoughts lately have grown more frequently stale and dry. Plots for a fiction develop and unravel inside my mind, but the time never presents itself to sit and type out the unfound words. I barely find the energy to put down these meandering journal entries.
The passenger train rounds a bend along the rocky river bank. It is a caterpillar bound by instinct law to follow the path laid down years ago by sweat and blood of man. It is steel forged straight, fastened and bound to earth on stone, wood, and more steel. The mind inside the man plays tricks now as he watches the concave arc outstretching before him disappear into the darkness of cavernous shade. His headphones crackle and fade as the car dives into a mountainside tunnel and his radio loses its signal. Alone in the dark, he ponders the news of the old mountain's awakening.
We were welcomed this afternoon after a stop at Callahan's for a free through-hiker beer and quick hitch into town into the home of Nick Caselli, the brother of my good friend Jacob, and his girlfriend Christina. They are both river guides here in Southern Oregon on the Rogue and Klamath Rivers. They had just come home from a long day of rafting and we all enjoyed a relaxed evening of talking and eating together. They are both outdoor enthusiasts and took great interest in our trip. The conversation was easy and interesting. We spent a good hour discussing the horrors of big cat attacks; another hour on rafting bruises and blunders. Nick, who also guides climbing trips up Mt. Shasta shared stories of mountainering mishaps and then we closed out the evening with a viewing of "Slammin' Salmon: Whitewater Bloopers Vol. 1" Before seeing the video, I had thought, "boy, I wish we had time to ride the river for a day before heading out," but afterwards, no f-ing way. I cannot believe how terrifyingly rough those rapids can be. On another day, another year, when breaking a leg might be a little less debilitating . . . just maybe . . .
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