Stretching across the mountainside of my property is a mining ditch dug by Chinese laborers more than a century ago. I built my new house in the woods just below that ditch and my old one on a widened spot of the flat ground that makes a trail along the ditch. When I lived there, I used to walk that trail a mile or so to the creek and then up the creek to a waterfall.
Last week I took some friends along that ditch from my house to the edge of the property. A small tag on a tree marks my boundary with BLM, but the woods don’t recognize a property line, and there was nothing to stop our walk if we wanted to keep going. Downed trees and a tangle of branches obstructed the trail ahead, and none of us was dressed for a rugged hike – I in a silk skirt; Chelsea in fancy dress boots and carrying a 24-ounce cup of coffee, and Travis in a fine black coat and shoes that were not exactly hiking boots – but some enchantment was drawing us on. We kept walking.
If this were a fairy tale, it would have been an evil troll who put obstacles in our path: the logs we had to crawl over and under, the brambles that reached out to tear my silk skirt, the sticks and branches strewn on the ground, slick with recent rain. But time and again we foiled the troll. No obstacle turned us back. When we came to a mud-slippery bank too steep to climb, tall, muscular Travis scrambled up it first, then turned to give Chelsea and me a hand. When the path seemed impassable with an avalanche of branches, Travis crawled over it to prove it could be crossed; then I followed, stepping on branches without touching the ground. When Chelsea followed me, the troll grabbed a foot and pulled her down. Hands reached out to help her up, and she emerged laughing, the coffee unspilled.
As in a fairy tale, we were drawn deep into the woods, the mountain rising steeply on our left, sweeping downhill on our right. All the woods glistened from a recent rain – the massive dark trunks of firs and cedars, the arboreal verdure, the snaky red limbs of madrones. Golden-leaved maples lifted their arms in bright glory. A dim sun cast a misty light through the trees. Mosses greened the trunks, softened our tread, grew thickly luxuriant on a rocky hillside. There was no music, but it was as if there were. There was no Titania peeking around the trees or Puck beating on a mushroom as on a drum, but it was as if there were. There was no tangible evidence of a magic spell, but we could feel it, anyway.
Finally we came to a spot where I could see another obstacle of logs and branches ahead. I could sense the day dwindling. If we were to get home before dark, I said, we should turn back now. Chelsea and Travis agreed. But still we stood there, gazing at the woods. Below us the creek sparkled through the branches of trees. The late afternoon sun slanting through the maples turned the light golden. A tinkling murmur of water intensified the silence. We stood there, unspeaking, washed in the softness, the colors, the richness of the woods, enraptured by the quiet beauty, the unassuming beingness of this spot in the woods, bewitched and beguiled by the spell of the sensuous.
In the gathering dusk we retraced our steps to my house, which appeared through the woods like a gingerbread cottage of enchanted beings, where spells are woven and tales are told.
Last week I took some friends along that ditch from my house to the edge of the property. A small tag on a tree marks my boundary with BLM, but the woods don’t recognize a property line, and there was nothing to stop our walk if we wanted to keep going. Downed trees and a tangle of branches obstructed the trail ahead, and none of us was dressed for a rugged hike – I in a silk skirt; Chelsea in fancy dress boots and carrying a 24-ounce cup of coffee, and Travis in a fine black coat and shoes that were not exactly hiking boots – but some enchantment was drawing us on. We kept walking.
If this were a fairy tale, it would have been an evil troll who put obstacles in our path: the logs we had to crawl over and under, the brambles that reached out to tear my silk skirt, the sticks and branches strewn on the ground, slick with recent rain. But time and again we foiled the troll. No obstacle turned us back. When we came to a mud-slippery bank too steep to climb, tall, muscular Travis scrambled up it first, then turned to give Chelsea and me a hand. When the path seemed impassable with an avalanche of branches, Travis crawled over it to prove it could be crossed; then I followed, stepping on branches without touching the ground. When Chelsea followed me, the troll grabbed a foot and pulled her down. Hands reached out to help her up, and she emerged laughing, the coffee unspilled.
As in a fairy tale, we were drawn deep into the woods, the mountain rising steeply on our left, sweeping downhill on our right. All the woods glistened from a recent rain – the massive dark trunks of firs and cedars, the arboreal verdure, the snaky red limbs of madrones. Golden-leaved maples lifted their arms in bright glory. A dim sun cast a misty light through the trees. Mosses greened the trunks, softened our tread, grew thickly luxuriant on a rocky hillside. There was no music, but it was as if there were. There was no Titania peeking around the trees or Puck beating on a mushroom as on a drum, but it was as if there were. There was no tangible evidence of a magic spell, but we could feel it, anyway.
Finally we came to a spot where I could see another obstacle of logs and branches ahead. I could sense the day dwindling. If we were to get home before dark, I said, we should turn back now. Chelsea and Travis agreed. But still we stood there, gazing at the woods. Below us the creek sparkled through the branches of trees. The late afternoon sun slanting through the maples turned the light golden. A tinkling murmur of water intensified the silence. We stood there, unspeaking, washed in the softness, the colors, the richness of the woods, enraptured by the quiet beauty, the unassuming beingness of this spot in the woods, bewitched and beguiled by the spell of the sensuous.
In the gathering dusk we retraced our steps to my house, which appeared through the woods like a gingerbread cottage of enchanted beings, where spells are woven and tales are told.
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