I went to bed thinking I'd do a hike, like a real one, with elevation and boots and snow paraphernalia and such. After summiting Mt. Ellinor the day before, I awoke to find that my body wanted nothing to do with a more serious adventure. Plans cancelled, I opted for some waterfalls.
With low expectations due to the predicted rain/snow, I assembled my less serious outdoor gear and started driving about the countryside. Outside of the Interstate 5 artery and its associated cluster of fast commerce, everything beyond quickly becomes 'countryside'. I took less traveled roads on my way to Cathedral Falls. I went slowly, as if playing the floor-is-lave game with myself and Mother Earth.
The rain washed in and out. The fog roiled up and down. The road went this way and curved that way. I stopped to watch the fog animate the treed hillside. The colors were muted, as if to grayscale, becoming a novelty, something less seen than their usual vibrance of greens.
Eventually, I made it where I wanted to be. Time seemed irrelevant. This is unusual for me. I feel self-inflicted with always having someplace to be and in a hurry to get wherever that is. I'm not important, but sometimes I feel like I should be. It's days like this that remind me of my complete unimportance and smallness.
The trailhead was filled with patches of snow and one other vehicle. The trail was damp, soggy. The rivers flowing down the hillsides were energetic and full. I stopped mid-stream to try my hand at turning blue-gray water into white, soft streaks of wonder. Between the roar of the creek and my immersion into setting up this photo, the occupants of the the sole trailhead vehicle had lined up behind me waiting for be to be done art-ing. Mid-art, I startled when I finally heard a voice reaching through the static of the falling water.
Gah!
With those humans in their crinkly rain slickers down the trail, I had this whole corner of the planet to myself and I acted the part. I walked that trail with a humble swagger, nowhere to be and no one to interrupt be in being here and nowhere at the same time.
I spent an hour in the hollowed out rock behind and around Cathedral Falls. With my 16-35mm lens, I lusted for a 14mm, imagining that those extra two measly millimeters would allow me the masterful composition I wanted. I settled for what the 16 had to offer.
The rain eventually found me. Despite my effort to keep my lens free of droplets, I yielded to the to the rain's relentlessness. I wasn't mad about it. I was here to take what I was given and I had a nonchalance about it. What else could I expect for a January day in the Northwest?
Back at the truck I found myself at the crux of my day. Do I go home or do I drive an hour farther from home in the rain, hoping that my next stop would be precipitation-free? This felt like hail-mark-type-optimism (if you haven't heard of 'hail-mark', I haven't either. I kept typing hail-mary , but repeatedly the minions at Apple auto-corrected it to hail-mark. I'm leaving it). I went East, hoping for waterfalls, knowing it might be just a drive in gray weather.
There was a truck at this trailhead, too, but I didn't see another human on this loop. I went to Covell Falls first. The trail ascends briskly, making me question the amount of layers I had selected. It then descends slowly, winding past a rock wall that seem reminiscent of basalt columns, squared-off and abrupt. I have been here once before, but the length of my approach feels much longer than remembered. My memory works like this.
Soon the sound of the rain percussing the broad green undergrowth, became overwhelmed by the thunderous static of what could only be Covell Falls - always heard before seen. With the rain lighter than minutes before I got to work. Tripod. Camera in portrait orientation. Lens shielded. Settings checked. Lens wiped. Shutter depressed. Pray for forcefield around lens to prevent raindrops on said lens. Wait two seconds.
(click)
Wipe raindrops. Check LCD screen. Repeat.
This went on for a few minutes, a relentless effort to stymy the water from above in hopes of having gasp-worthy photos of the water falling over far below. And so it went.
And then it happened. I stopped producing. My hands were still and my brain awoke into the moment of now, a witness now to the milliseconds careening into history. I looked up. Snowflakes were falling in pirouettes and triple-axles. The turbulence caused by the falling water affecting every snowflake's path in ways that seemed unnatural.. Every swirl and dip and twirl a piece to a building mesmerization. The roar of water plunging from rock to rock as background to the quietest, most delicate dance falling through the green boughs surrounding this canyon. I smiled, helplessly, wonder overtaking me. Raw, unavoidable gratefulness. A gratitude birthing itself into my chest, recognizing the privilege to have places and moments like this to overwhelm me and that I am awake enough to see it, to feel it.
In my experience these moments don't last long, but long enough. This moment passed because there was another waterfall to see and the looming disappearance of the sun behind some horizon. But these moments are my drug. This is my release, the gravity of peace standing still. And this is why I keep coming back, seeking the sacred amidst the mess.
Inevitably I wince, thinking about all the moments I miss. I know I can't be on every mountain-top to see every sunrise or in the middle of the ocean to see each whale breach its bounds or within every den of the mother fox as she gives birth to her freshly-knit kits, yet I am overwhelmed by the abundance of moments to be had, to be witness to, and all I can do is choose to show up for this one moment now. And if I choose this waterfall-chasing-in-the-rain-turned-snow, it is always better - and infinitely so - than sitting at home on YouTube watching the world as a spectator. While there are no participation points, feeling the snow on my eyelids rather than watching it fall on someone else's increased gratitude and I believe this matters.
Happy chasing.
Comments