Ponderings From a Week in the Cascades [Non-Fiction]
As soon as I am so immersed in my environment, once the egotistical psyche finally breaks down and the menial discomforts are integrated rather than observed, the senses begin to prioritize the pure majesty of existence. This humble moment finally unveils a sense of real belonging. But, is it the ego that limits us to drink from just the brim of our natural human existence? To allow ourselves to return to the costly comforts of our homes and the break-neck pace of progress and competition under which we are usually subjected?
The waterfall and the brook splash and trickle and babble as they document their journey through the landscape; a compliment to the power of those numerous molecules. I'm listening to the stream: billions of atoms crashing into each other. So much happening for only one moment of existence to precipitate unto our consciousness. I could exist in a billion torturous forms and yet I am here.
The billowing Nooksak river powerfully encircles a boulder right in the middle of a cross-stream, around 15 feet across. The boulder, like a little rocky island and respite to the small tree which occupies one of the many cracks and crevices.
The water is so clear yet so impossibly blue. The sky is large and simmers with the contentment of the sun. Rocky cliff-sides surround the beach and are dotted with trees which curve away from the hill like mushrooms. Uncountable elements of foliage furnishing the consistency of the terrain with visual complexity. The backdrop of a large mountain in the distance overwhelms the scenery, along with the constant wailing of this small waterfall— a monument to the pilgrimage of the mountainous waters. Here, the streams do not trickle nor pour, but roar, all but tearing into the boulders and rocks which shoulder them.
So glorious to catch my attention and imagination and fantasy, there are no illusions to be made about taste. I was built to be constantly bewildered and exasperated by the relatively mundane.
Like gelatin, it crashes down the rocky faces, gliding just on the cusp of the smooth, barren, rocks. It escapes the imprisonment of the glacier with enthusiasm and glee. The surrounding cliff faces are all but claimed by mosses and lichen of countless variety and color. Plants flourishing in the smallest havens, their roots reaching for a dozen feet, scattered about the cracked grey surface.
This fleeting joy of serendipity sorrows me, but I know this specific moment was bred from on-high and beyond life. How things come together and yet fall apart in such short order. That terminal dependency of the moment upon the precondition of the past. A meandering glimmer of the horizon on the reflection of a reflection that is the amalgamated representation of progress.
Insects probably have some concept of beauty, I bet that they see their mates as beautiful just like us. Also, insects probably hear their own noises as much more menacing than the high pitched representation which we perceive. To other insects, they must sound like chopper blades and weed whackers.
Plants just develop and take root in whatever place they happen to, no matter how harsh or inhospitable, and they have no choice in the matter except to use their instincts to survive, and it is quite the same for us.
Being in a group constantly does change your brain chemistry in a good and more balanced way. It motivates you to be a better person and to accept others for who they are because you depend on them. Everyone shares chores, and so we need each-other; and, we are all engaged in the same activity which promotes natural comradery.
This trip has been enlightening and my mind has become much more clear with such room and time to contemplate, simmer, and let my imagination roam. The most embarrassing thing in the world is nothing. To be caught without, to be interrogated fruitlessly, to be unable to offer bare-subsistence or imperative, to not exist.
The emissions of a tree, emotion-less; these beings try to propagate into a futile future as evidenced by every step with the crunch of pine-cones. The endless and uncountable swarms of flies and insects, a testament to the trial and error, all give no shove, shotgun approach to reproduction. Flies are fertile by attrition, most of their existence is insurance for the fact that they die so often and quick. These critters were almost built to die; instincts like patchwork, an essence of finality and a microcosm of it’s own being.
Trees: their skin so rigid and complex, patterns so unpredictable to behold. Not randomness but the same kind of spontaneous and prescriptive organizations as evidenced by brain regions and face shape.
The interdependence of us campers almost perfectly represents the interdependence of cells as well as organelles, plants and animals, and the greater concept of balance throughout nature. We have finally arrived at the trail head.
These liminal times, in between nature and my normal life, it feels very strange to be alive. We are in Natasha’s car and it goes so incredibly fast compared to how we traveled, and it seems impossible that there are seats even designed for human butts.
The lesson, the narrative, can’t always be found, nor the justification. Like a creek, you just keep going. The most socially rewarded persona is one which negates the most beautiful features of a person.
This constant physical activity engages self-contemplation in a continuum of meaning. We were commonly invested and engaged, we all had a duty to perform, a stake and part in the outcome. We were all stuck together with no expectation of that interdependence dissolving and it was beautiful.