Coquille, Illinois

As I stepped out of the forest and onto the ledge of rock that hangs out over the valley of the Illinois River, I strode headfirst into a scattered mist of rain the canopy of trees had been protecting me from. 

It was a thin, delicate rain that could soak through anything, it drenched my hair in seconds and clung to my eyelashes, dripping off the end of my nose. I blinked vigorously and attempted to shake the rain loose, tossing my head like a pony. 

Looking out across the valley I could see this weather cell was temporary- moving east quickly as it grazed the tops of the ridges, encircling their summits, fog spilling into their depressions. I was lucky enough to catch this storm on the rim of the canyon, where I could feel its power for a few moments. 

I was cold, and getting colder, but having finally reached the canyon’s edge, I wanted my first full view of the valley below. 

The Illinois river lie unseen beneath me in the forested green folds that rose and fell away in a labyrinth of coast range peaks and steep river valleys. Creeks and tributaries confluenced along the way with bigger rivers, always snaking toward the ocean. 

Small, windswept trees made a home on the cliff’s edge , clinging to bare rock and reaching deep into the cracks and crevasses of their folds, surviving on small, sparse bodies of soil that gather there. 

The road here was long. A thirty mile adventure along steep, single lane roads through the inland forests of southern Oregon, with their jungle-like foliage. I passed waterfalls and steep, fern-lined hillsides as I climbed into the mountains, ascending roads that seemed to get narrower with each passing turn. 

I could feel the anxiety rising in my chest. I was hours from a cell signal, alone, on a dirt road in the mountains of southern Oregon, in an area I have never visited before. Any number of things could go wrong, leaving me in a bind. Back home, in the coast range mountains of the Tillamook, on the slopes of Mount Hood or the foothills of the Cascades- that was my territory, my turf. I knew every canyon and waterfall, every summit and spire by name. I could close my eyes and envision the curve of the land and the intersection of each stream with the rivers that carve long and winding through the mountains. 

New terrain is different. I haven’t committed to memory the details of every creek and river in each of the canyons here. I haven’t seen the summit of every major and minor peak, and I probably never will. I don’t know the landscape intimately, and because of that, I am going to navigate this land with a particular reverence and respect. Moving with a different energy and a different intention. Always remembering that I am only a guest here. 

Gazing out over the peaks and valleys, ridges and ravines, I swung my pack off my shoulder, knelt down and made myself a place to sit against a small, shrubby tree. The rain softened into a mist as the clouds shifted away. I could feel the tiny, invisible strings of spiderweb, still clinging to my skin from my time in the forest. They laced themselves through my eyelashes and across my face, entwining with my hair. Removing my thermos of tea, I took a few minutes to rest and breathe and fully come home into my body. I’ve worked hard to arrive at this moment and I’m ready to receive it. 

Many years I spent moving through the mountains, barely noticing my surroundings. I was going through the motions, but never felt fully present in the places I visited or the moments where everything I sacrificed and suffered through had finally paid off- I was always half gone, already moving on. 

And truly, the accomplishment is in the training, the execution of any objective the last step- the one that proves you worthy. Earning the right to see these landscapes for myself through time, consistency, dedication and determination will always be the real journey. 

But why do all the work, to then turn around and not appreciate what it’s earned you? 

All at once I noticed that the rain had passed. The mist was now a wall moving up the canyon, and the blue sky was visible as a bright band to the south and east. Raindrops continued to shed from the tree canopy, but out here on the cliff’s edge the emerging sun was already gleaming off the wet rocks. 

Wet rocks meant that I would not be climbing up the backside of the largest overhung rock to stand above the valley today. Instead, I wandered carefully along the edges, keeping back from the overhung ledge that sloped towards a steep drop, admiring the tiny colonies of mosses and plants that grew in the crevasses, the wind swept trees and shrubs, and the last remaining tiny flowers of summer and fall. Below me the earth rolled out and away, a thousand ridges and ravines covered in velvety southern cascades forests, resplendent with rugged terrain and lush fern gardens thriving beneath a canopy of mature trees. I studied the shapes I saw below, hoping to create a mental map of the area, or at least build some familiarity.

As a walked along, I found a small puddle of water that had formed in a depression- inside that tiny pool, worms wriggled together, stirring up a small amount of sand.  I watched the bodies of the worms lace themselves together and then twist away again, and the tiny grains of sand dance beneath them. 

I shuddered remembering a time I had to drink from a puddle like this once, after an unexpected detour was forced in high mountain country at the end of a long day and I could feel the effects of dehydration edging in. I traded the risk of future illness against the near-certain consequences of dehydration and rolled the dice. Getting off the mountain safely was my priority. 

The wall of clouds disappeared and the sun came out. I wanted to absorb every last ray of sun before the long, wet winter descended on us for good, and every opportunity in this warm, late October could be my last. Sun reflected off the pools and slick, wet rock- intensifying the light as the last whisper of fog pulled away from the tree canopy. 

I closed my eyes and reclined against the tree again. I considered waiting here til sunset, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to sleep up here in my car or navigate the treacherous single lane roads in the dark. 

With my eyes closed, I just listened to the forest for a few minutes. I could hear three or maybe four different bird calls in the trees behind me. I felt a breeze touch my face as the sun warmed my skin, pulling a few strands of my hair free. I noticed the temperature of the air around me, the way my body felt against the rock and the tree, the faint smell of forest, firs, warm soil, and a distant ocean. Beneath me, from the canyon, I hear the low distant rumble of the river- stones turning over in the current and the crashing of water. 

The distant sound of water is a familiar low drone and I wonder for a moment if all rivers emit different frequencies of sound? Or are they all the same? I think back to the potent memory of my first summer exploring the alpine on Mount Hood. 

Standing on a knife edge ridge, looking down on the Sandy glacier, listening to the low rumble of snowmelt moving and falling, glacier cracking and groaning. The sound of the mountain enchanted me- heart-aching, breath-taking, I felt a stirring in my bones that could not be ignored.

No matter how many times I visited the same places, the magic was always there, hooking around my heart and calling me to return, the low droning voice of the glacier echoed through my body. 

Back on the ledge above the Illinois, I was still entranced by the low sound of the distant river, the warmth of the October sunshine, and the dreamy brightness of sun on wet rocks. A raven passed overhead, eyeing me on the rocks, but I never heard them announce my presence to the rest of the forest. They gave a single croak and turned toward the trees again, passing quickly out of my view.

I didn’t mean to stay past sunset. I watched as the sun sank to the horizon and an explosion of golden colors filled the sky, slowly draining away to reveal a purple blue dusk, while fog again returned to the valley. I didn’t want to leave. 

Shouldering my pack, I walked back into the forest, returning the way I had come. Lichens hung from the trunks of the trees and the forest floor was blanketed in bear grass, gleaming with the reflection of rainwater on leaves as the last rays of light slipped behind the horizon. The forest grew darker as I descended and the low sound of the river beneath me fell away- replaced with the dripping of water on leaves, the crunching of sticks underfoot, birds in the trees and the rustling of leaves. 

The trail wound down to the road as the fog closed in, shrouding the forest like a great curtain closing behind me. I stood out in the road for a while until to moon rose overhead and watched the fog bank overtake me. 

It was time to go, and so I left, but with longing in my heart.