Volleyball High

Michael and my aunt Paula (as well as all their colleagues and friends) have welcomed me into the ritual of park volleyball. Game after game, whether the team I'm on wins or loses, I feel invigorated for a total effect of leaving on a volleyball high. I feel like I could play forever. Today the games started at 3:30 and ended at 7:30. I imagine the group would have kept playing if enough people didn't have to go home to responsibilities. I know it would have taken nothing more than the request for another game to keep me going.

For someone like me who is constantly aware of time it is such a gift to find an activity that engages me in an entirely different way. More than once I have played past evening dates, unaware of the time passing. I lose myself in these games. Another gift is the gift of constantly changing teams. Nothing seems fixed. You get to play with everyone. Sometimes I feel like a strong player and other times a weaker link. But it is all fun. People give friendly advice that makes me want to play better. People encourage each other's efforts as much as they tease, both lovingly. People laugh. People bring their kids who play in that old fashion imagination way. I love every moment of it and I leave with a kind of high, what I have come to call the volleyball high.

Farewell Alaska

It has been swell but it looks like it is time to go home. Alas, I am just passing through. A few thoughts before I go...

Last night a friend texted me and told me to look at the moon. I looked out the window but it was still light. I have gotten quite used to these extra hours of light each day. I asked the woman in the bunk next to me if the moon came out here. I realize what a silly question this was the moment it came out of my mouth. I have seen the moon in the day before but it made me realize that I have not really seen much night here at all. Once in the three weeks I stayed up after dark and once I stumbled to an outhouse in what I assume were the early morning hours, but it has been light for most of the three weeks that I have been here.

I am a creature of habit. Although my time in Alaska is limited I have somehow become a regular at my new found favorites. I went to Snow City Cafe AGAIN this morning, Title Wave Books for a 2nd time (I was smart not to bring my wallet this time but just a pen and paper to write down some titles), Moose Tooth Pizzeria, and Cafe Del Mundo. People around town are even looking familiar. Traveling to experience the ordinary is one of my favorite things to do. I love going to parks in cities, finding haunts to haunt, and navigating the streets like I know where I am going. Thanks again Maria for the car to do it in here. I have felt so mobile and free...

If someone who has lived somewhere tells you that you must do something while you are there, you better do it. Thanks Vicki for the advice to take the sightseeing plane out of McCarthy. It was hands down the most stunning experience of my trip, well worth the price. I couldn't stop exclaiming how vast the glaciers were and how amazing it was to see how everything connected. It was especially incredible to see icebergs over 700 feet long floating in a lake, the undulations of the glacial flow, and the blue river canyon carved into ice. Wow, wow, wow!

A good hostel is more than just a place to stay. It is a place to meet people from all around the world, find yourself in an authentic potentially life-changing conversation, and consider different ways of living. I have been lucky this week to find not one, but two, such places: the Denali Mountain Morning Hostel and the Spenard Hostel International. I delighted in the lively Spanish family style meals that happened at each meal time, smiling each time I heard the Barcelona lisp and recognized words here and there. I also met a man from India who reminded me to be awed by the experiences I am having. He was wide-eyed and child-like recounting his travels through Alaska. I had been to each place and his enthusiasm was just what I needed in my travel weary state to remember that I am lucky and this world is full of wonders. In Anchorage, I was instantly engaged by my bunk mates, who talked education with me, made some thought-provoking recommendations for possible future studies, and reminded me that not everyone lets work dictate their choices, some make it bend to their wishes. A good hostel is a stimulating place, a place to meet new friends, listen to inspiring adventures, share a meal, do a chore to help out, and pass on what you have be it advice, a guidebook, or some extra food.

There are incredible people everywhere doing incredible things. Going to the writing workshop introduced me to a whole slew of inspiring people who I hope to stay in touch with (I have added them to my address book). Sharing in a common experience, even short in length, can be a profound way to connect. I have led such a fulfilling life and met so many people along the way. Continuing to experience the depth and breadth of humanity propels me on and on, from adventure to adventure, conversation to conversation, dream to dream.

But this adventure has come to an end...My 3rd graders await.

One Happy Non-Camper

Though I didn't get a sight of Mt. Mckinley, on my bus ride through Denali National Park I saw:

• 5 moose
• 1 lynx
• 1 wolf
• 2 dall sheep
• 2 dozen caribou
• 16 grizzly bears

simply amazing...

New Words

Funny how being in a new place for a period of time adds to your vocabulary. Funny that here most of the words I have acquired have to do with glaciers.

Down South - any place in the lower 48

Dryas - Alaskan version of dandelion. It starts off as a white daisy-like flower, with a yellow center but when it is time for seed dispersal, it transforms first into a pink twisted bundle of feather-like seeds. Then it opens like a dandelion, dispersing its seeds with the brush of a passing animal or the wind. The dryas don't need much to grow and grow in islands. A beautiful flower.

Erratics- rocks that have been carried and dropped by glaciers. They can be any size but the ones most often called erratic are huge isolated rocks, noticeably different from the surrounding geography.

Glacier Flour (aka rock flour) - fine grained silt that comes from the glacier which turns the waters a milky gray. Can be rubbed onto hands, pants, shoes from any gravel deposited from glaciers. It would appear this is what currently coats all my clothing.

Katabatic - a word that describes the winds that come off of the glacier. They are cold and fast because the wind has been forced down the glacier slope.

Moraine - an accumulation of rock and soil formed by the glacier. Many tourists asks why the glaciers are so dirty and this inevitably prompts guides to explain the different types of moraines. There are lateral moraines on the sides of glaciers, terminal moraines at the ends of glaciers, medial moraines that form in the middle where two glaciers meet, and ground moraines that form underneath the glacier. The more I look, the more fascinating these features of the glacier are...you can see so many different types of rock and it gives a whole different sense of the age and force of glaciers.

Ptarmigan - Alaskan state bird. A bit like a chicken but found in the tundra.

Kennecott Glacier Haibun

There is no beginning but each story starts somewhere. A group of walkers silently start off single file in the direction of Kennecott Glacier Face. We crowd each other, almost evenly spaced walking the well-worn path. Until one breaks away, granting the permission implicitly desired to journey by a different path.

Walk back and
You will find the path
That leads to the heart
Trace the walker’s steps
A shape will emerge
Place the shapes side by side
You will find
They fit
Like a puzzle
Rough edges collide smoothly
Indentations of need
Match
Extrusions of wisdom
Off they go every which way.

The space between us, the remaining trail walkers, widens and the trail signs fade. How does a moose choose its steps? I think I will follow its choice, marked by pellets, bowing to the sense of direction I do not yet have in this unfamiliar terrain. Boulders block, trees enclose, and then a meadow of Dryas invites. I have found a footpath that matches my step.

My rhythm is broken by a splash of a bird bathing in a pool in the dip of a boulder. Another lands. Takes flight. Another. There is a path by air, marked by rest and feast. How many paths might there be?

Bound to land and the edge of the glacial lake, each of our footpaths has common features. We walk through a story of succession. By foot the chapters are jumbled – walkers venturing from one section to another and back again as we move through the space, not bound by the order in which nature wrote this tale. All the chapters, as when you hold a book, co-exist. Put in order it is a story of dependence. Each plant species needs another, all are given a space and time to thrive.

Rocky, nutrient-deficient land, touched last by the glacier’s edge, hosts the protagonists of chapter one. Plants that can create their own nitrogen. Here the path is Dryas with tickles of Fireweed. Layers of the Dryas’ life cycle – the unfurled plant, the leaves without stems, the decomposition of ones spent, a gathering of seeds, the network of roots easily lifted from the rock on which they grow – appear in islands on this once seemingly barren land. Preparing the soil to host the seed of a stray Soap Berry or Poplar, they lead seamlessly into the next chapter.

Soap Berries with their radiant reach and yarn red berries sprout and root in the center of patches of Dryas. Poplars add height to the scenery. Green leaves shiver to white. Years add girth to the trunks. The soil richens. Hidden here and there are the seedlings of the conifer giants.

Lone figures to start, in time they take over this story. Forests grow as centuries pass. The light no longer reaching the sun-fed starts of this tale, without whom this story could not be told.

Knowing this story is not a requisite for walking this landscape but once it is known it is like seeing how letters form words and words tell stories and stories connect to that which we cannot know alone.

Patterns of change
What is lost gives way
Believe in connection
To accept what life brings

Walkers take the paths through this story that gets them from there to here. Widely dispersed, the group of walkers is often camouflaged from view, even with the banana yellows, the full spectrum of blues, the barn reds. The vastness of even this small portion of the space is a cover. But we are close enough to hear. When the silence is broken by the call, each of us knows the direction to turn. We turn toward the edge of the lake, close to where the glacier last touched. The land full of promises to come. We converge to recount each of our journeys through this story.

Sit and be heard.
Sit and listen.
Sit and notice when no one speaks.
Sit and be still.
Close your eyes and remember.

There is no end but I will stop here.

Glacial Poetry

These poems were written as a group after our experience of hiking on Root Glacier. It is a hard place to capture...

Root Glacier I

shuffle of boots

radical erratics

tuffs of poplar hover

skeleton of one dead leaf

etched onto an icy page

accelerating

time sped by autumn leaf drop

too easy, not fair

faster and faster goes by

the years, marked by love and tears

ice water grit-flow

adapt to plasticity

this is your test, now.

Root Glacier II

Patch of black ice peaks

through rocks, looks like rock. Sneaky

slippery. Watch out.

pock-marked by gravel and stone

a ridgeline of whale back slope

leaf skeleton melts

sinking to ice surface

what is your imprint?

ice woman has no skin

and no sunscreen to protect

so exposed on the ice

nowhere to hide from wind and sun

except under hood

Root Glacier III

glacial ablation

where ancient capillaries trickle

body with no skin

pebbles flow within structure

structure with constant changes

crampons tightly secured

I crunch over the ice’s surface

a tap dance of metal

each hole a new melting place

filled up with water and dust

hope against hope. I

Wonder: what will happen next

after it all melts?

Root Glacier IV

ragged dirty ice

ascending to frozen sky

old, old dirty ice

odd that one can stay so soiled

with so much running water

from azure mill wholes

bubbles rise like sacred breath

air the mammoths used

something ancient seems so new

“non-living” seems to miss the point

forward to the river

first a lake icebergs form

then the water rushes

Root Glacier V

crunching of crampons

over rock and icy mass

euphoric laughter

echoes over deep mourning

noisy roars creaks moans and squeals

like rivers of ice

constantly moving forward

we move through our pain

turn a corner, pause, full stop:

Glacial erratic, huge, black.

stones within emerge

sealed with change bonded with time

life inside the gray

Root Glacier VI

lines cross the landscape

cutting stripes curves cut deeper

straight ancient round new

ever moving forward

past the mountains high above

caves edge the bottom

a chance to explore below

who is brave enough

spikes of steel bit her surface

new pools form in their wakes

and one brave woman

takes off her knives and goretex

to swim naked, ICED

Root Glacier VII

white blue clear bluer

so cold and so beautiful

you make me feel warm

yearn to jump in your waters

pure, crystalline, magical

depths uncertain

surface so easy and calm

arms glide in with heart

deceptive façade begins

placid conceals deep danger

cold winds blow down the

glacier – catabatic its

called. Frosty nights ahead

Root Glacier VIII

charcoal tops the ice

chips and shards of ice peek through

cobbled together

moving in unison

forward motion forever

strength beyond measure

maniacally powerful

dynamic current

patient, unyielding, watchful

careful to persevere

ice-wind swoops down slope

carrying sapphire blue scents

to my nose, my mouth

Root Glacier IX

her snarled hair

runs in glistening ribbons

ice minnows leaping

take these tresses and make them

into song, into drumbeat

like our hearts, that beat

the rhythm of our writing

we keep moving along

unending circle of work

churning, flowing, decisive

keeping thoughts flowing

keep pens moving trailing words

as ice moves, melts, flows

Root Glacier X

ice mama, birth me

underground rivers, deep bones

how do I open?

slowly. so slowly. slowly.

patiently. persistently.

mind blank, so very

blank. nothing but empty space

cold, blank, empty, nothingness

and then form, this grey body

melting, melting and melting

born again, flowing on

molecules in water bottles

carry away to places new.

Out of Touch

I imagine I will be out of touch for the next week as I am unlikely to have internet or phone. Wish me well...and look out for some writing at the end (fingers crossed).

A is for Anchorage

I definitely came down with something. First a sore throat, then a bunch of junk in my chest, and now coughing and a runny nose. The worst thing is that I feel sore from head to toe. But I'm not one to let that stop me, although I do admit I have slowed down substantially. I have slept in, taken frequent breaks while walking through town, done less, and gone to bed early. I have also ingested large amounts of vitamin C, ibuprofen, and water. I think (fingers crossed) I am getting better because my early symptoms are gone and stuff is coming up and out. If not I am just going to pretend until it's true. Tomorrow is my departure for McCarthy and the writing workshop.

This is not to say that I have not enjoyed Anchorage. I have, very much. Thanks to a last minute guidebook purchase I found the BEST breakfast place, Snow City Cafe. Day one I arrived there right when they opened and as a result I didn't have to wait. I devoured eggs benedict and many cups of water/coffee. The walk from my hostel was a bit longer than I expected so I felt ravished. Day two (yes, I went back because it was that good) I arrived an hour after opening and had to wait an hour. It was sort of fun though because I got to watch a race pass by and cheer on all the runners.

The order in which I did things the last few days is a bit hazy but I will give a brief description of the highlights.

I saw a concert in the park. The music was lovely but the real pleasure was watching all the camp groups of kids come with their lunches and end up dancing, climbing, and running about.

I went to the Anchorage Museum which had a curious combination of historical, artistic, and hands-on science exhibits. Honestly I had most fun with all the things I could touch. I made waves, listened to the sounds of glaciers, made a balloon launch, pulled myself up a rope, and simulated an earthquake, a volcano, and a glacier. While it was hard to engage with the history at first when I decided to go from present to past I found it a lot easier. I was particularly struck by how the Alaskan tribes have become corporations (the language didn’t match my pre-conceived expectations), it only became a state in my parents’ lifetime (did you guys learn the 48 states in school?), and the quality of the Aleut kayaks. The art was okay but it seemed to mostly pale in comparison to the real places it depicts. I am finding that to be the case here in Alaska. There is something awe inspiring about being here that is hard to capture.

I found a delight and tempting bookstore called Title Wave Books. I walked out of there with 4 new books. I persuaded myself that this was okay because 3 of them were less than a hundred pages and all somewhat related to what I am thinking about these days. This also incidentally inspired me to repack my suitcase so that I don’t take as many clothes to McCarthy (I am just wearing outfits multiple times) and have room for my books. The greatness of this bookstore lay in the way one discovery would somehow lead to another. I was making a zig-zag pattern through the store, from section to section as one author would remind me of another, etc.

The Anchorage Market & Festival was a farmers’ and artisans’ market. It was okay but I wasn’t really interested in buying anything so it all just seemed like stuff. I think I find myself reacting negatively to other people’s consumerism. I definitely have my own moments but somehow traveling doesn’t compel me to make purchases of things that simply mark the travel. I am much more drawn to beauty.

I treated myself to the new Harry Potter movie. It seemed like a good comfort activity and I wasn’t disappointed.

Finally I made my way out of town a bit to the Alaska Heritage Center. There were six village sites, modeled after different native homes. I was struck by the 2^nd tunnel entrance that served as an escape in the Aleut/Alutiiq site because of polar bear attacks. Also in Yu’pick/Cu’pick site the winter entrance ran under ground like a fox hole to prevent the escape of heat. The highlight of my visit was the demonstrations from the youth. Two boys demonstrated native sports. They hit with their foot a ball that was hung up to 9 feet high. Then there was a dance/drum demonstration. Seeing the active participation and talent of high schoolers was inspiring. I found myself captivated, forgetting myself for the moments that I watched. I ended the visit with an exhibit about universal values. I copied them down. I can really see some interesting conversations with my own students with these as a starting point. Here they are:

Show Respect to Others - Each person has a special gift

Share What you Have - Giving makes you richer

Know Who You Are - You are a reflection of your family

Accept What Life Brings - You cannot control many things

Have Patience- Some things cannot be rushed

Live Carefully - What you do will come back to you

Take Care of Others - You cannot live without them

Honor Your Elders - They show you the way in life

Pray for Guidance - Many things are not known

See Connections - All things are related

Return Journey to Anchorage

1 & 2) Resurrect Art Coffee House 3) Mile 0 of the Iditarod Trail 4)Buoy Tree in front of someone's house 5) 7 Dwarfs Falls from train 6)View of front of train on sharp curve 7) Trail Glacier 8) Moose 9) Ghost Forest near Portage, AK 10) Dome car 11) Dall Sheep along Turnagain Arm

I like doing things more than once. It gives me a chance to move beyond the excitement and start to notice more details. I also feel less compelled to take pictures and am therefore more inclined to really experience the moments. That said, I have included some pictures so that you can get a sense of some of the sights that I saw as I took the train from Seward to Anchorage. This was my return journey, after three days in Seward. Although I didn't get into Anchorage until 10:15 p.m. it was light like the middle of the day the whole ride (I always notice this and am taken with surprise when I look at my watch). I am also glad that I didn't do the roundtrip in one day as the majority of passengers had.

I very much enjoyed Seward. Beyond the incredible outings which included walking up to the edge of a glacier, sea kayaking to the Gulf of Alaska (the largest open body of water in the world), and taking a tour boat to spot wildlife, I found myself charmed by the small town pace. My last day in Seward I played local: taking the school bus shuttle to the grocery store, going to the postoffice (of course!), the library to read Magazines, the park to just sit still on the water, and my (now regular) coffee shop called Resurrect Art Coffee House to write, contemplate teaching, and eavesdrop on conversations. I was officially made local by the bus driver who noticed my suitcase and asked if I was on "the ship." When I replied that I had come by train he said, "Well then we call you a local, no matter where you are from. " Turns out there was a cruise boat crowd in town which I hadn't crossed paths with until the bus which quickly filled up to take them all of 4 blocks to their docking station. Being included always feels good.

Once on the train the greatest discovery was the dome car, a car that was elevated with windows in many directions (forward, backward, up and out). The conductors asked that people only stay 20 minutes so that everyone could have a chance but there was never a crowd so I stayed for the duration of the trip. The light and views kept me alert for the whole ride, even with the gentle rocking of the train. I noticed when I walked through the lower levels more than half of the people were asleep. We spotted a moose eating, an mature and immature eagle pair, and dall sheep sprinting up the mountain side. I recognized many of the "sights" along the way, including my favorite - the ghost forest. It was formed when these tree roots were submerged in salt water during the 1964 Good Friday earthquake. It killed them but preserved them. They will stand for hundreds of years more, just so. It is quite striking.

I got into Anchorage and splurged on a cab to take me to my hostel. My body was achey from the previous day's kayaking and I think I feel a cold coming on. The luxury of not caring my bag up hill was well worth the $5 cabfare. I slipped into my bunk bed at the Alaska Backpackers Inn and slept the night through. Somehow it was only this morning that I realized all the hostel walls are painted by travelers. It is a nice assortment of art, inspirational quotes, and hopes for a life of adventure. It makes me remember why I stay in hostels in the first place.

Wildlife from Resurrection Bay

1) Tufted Puffin 2) Harbor Seal 3) Horned Puffin 4)Common Murre 5) Steller Sea Lions 6) Bald Eagle 7)Humpback Whale 8) Sea Otter
I forgot my camera cord to upload photographs but I got these from someone and they match my pictures well (actually they are far superior since my camera doesn't have a fancy lens for nature photography). I guess I should say they match what I saw today on my venture out on a boat/kayak in Resurrection Bay. I was out for 9 hours, up for 5 hours before that, and spent 3 of the hours kayaking so I am too beat to write and I heard somewhere that a picture is worth a thousand words. I am the satisfied kind of tired and imagine I will sleep well, even if I am surrounded by 18 year old boys from Wales in a place where the sun doesn't seem to set much. Thankfully I wasn't born into this world the Artic Tern which flies 24,000 miles a year or the Common Murre which has been found to dive 600 feet down for food.

The Down Side

While everything in the last entry is true I didn't mention a defining part of my trip to Exit Glacier: the flies. I am not kidding when I say that I often had 100 plus visitors swarming me on my walk toward the glacier. They landed on every part of my body from my eyebrow to my big toe. Thankfully, they did not bite and they were slow enough that I could kill every one I aimed for but unfortunately there was an endless supply and they managed to irritate every part of me as I swatted at them. The only respite was when the wind picked up or the temperature dropped. It was in these moments that I formed my glorious opinions of the place (which says a lot for the place considering my irritation). I am especially thankful that they were deterred by the cold because it meant that I got to experience my up close moment with the glacier in peace. The promise of "no flies ahead" was what I told each person I passed going down, trying to inspire them to push on (since they couldn't always see the majestic glacier from the path). I can't imagine the purpose of so many flies in the ecosystem so I caution to guess that's why it was so easy to kill them.

Exit Glacier in Seward, AK

A glacier is a magnificent sight to behold. Motion is implied in its shape seen from afar. Black smudges of silt and rock streak the celestial blue ice, like a well-traveled path. A little closer it has the look of a river frozen in time. I see in its crevasses, pockets, and layers a current and imagine one moment of a river rapid captured as in a photograph. Up close, within a hand’s reach, water drips, cascades and flushes out the inner recesses.

The slow steady movement of the glacier is downward but when paired with the fast melting in this warming period, this particular glacier, Exit Glacier, has been receding an average of 400 feet a year for the last 195 years. The plants around tell the story of its recession. Where the ice has most recently melted there lays exposed dark rock. It isn’t long, less than a year, before plants begin to grow from the rock – lichen, mosses and Dwarf Fireweed. Adding more green to the black, Alder comes next. These plants transform what was uninhabitable for other species into fertile ground as they add nitrates into the earth. Next come the cottonwoods and the willows. They too prefer the full sun exposure and they reach high, higher than the alders. It is the willows that provide the moose their favorite meal. Within 50 – 60 years, the ground, now fully covered, is rich and can support the young Sitka Spruce and Mountain Hemlock that have begun to mark their territory. Within 200 years these conifer beasts block the sunlight from their predecessors and a conifer forest presides. This gradual aging is evident all around the glacier, marking time with changes.

Address in Alaska

If anyone wants to send me a good old fashioned postcard, the address is c/o the WMC PO Box MXY #20. Glennallen, AK 99588, and the plane comes Mondays and Thursdays. I will only be there for one Monday (7/25) and one Thursday (7/28) so the chance to write is short because it will probably take at least a week to get from here to there. Any words would be much appreciated. You all know what a mail junky I am...

A Bridge Like Any Other Bridge

Like every other bridge, the 965 foot long Thomas Creek Bridge connects what is on one side to what is on the other. 345 feet high, it is the highest bridge in Oregon. Standing in the middle, looking down between the truss supports, the creek below looks meager, muddied brown, and shallow. Evidence of its might is visible too. The outline of brown silt is much wider than the creek itself. No plant life has grown within 20 feet of its current curves, a sign that it surges and swells. Piles of logs, which from this height look like a scattering of toothpicks, temporarily rest near where this creek meets the ocean. The creek delivered them and the ocean waves pushed them back. Perhaps on the next surge they will be carried out further and travel on. Their green adorned relatives, Sitka Spruce, blanket this valley. Never further than 50 miles from the Pacific Ocean, these coniferous evergreen trees grow to be 160 – 230 feet high. Some seven centuries old, these ancient individuals lose their distinctiveness when seen from above. Only the vastness of the ocean horizon surpasses the effect of looking down from this height.

I can no longer drive over bridges without thinking about my sister’s jump. On November 9, 2002 she chose the San Diego-Coronado Bridge, a two mile long connecting roadway that curves 80 degrees and slopes gradually upward from Coronado Island in order to reach high enough for navy ships to pass below without being at too steep a grade for vehicles to climb. Its pinnacle 200 feet above the San Diego Harbor is a fatal height. A body falling from this height can reach 70 miles per hour, a speed exceeding the posted limit for vehicles. The low 34-inch high concrete side railings afford an enchanting panorama. When I drive across my eye is instead drawn to the prominent blue signs repeatedly urging potential suicides to call a help hotline. Frequent jumpers make it the third deadliest bridge in the United States. At 24, my sister was one of the hundreds that made this traumatic choice.

It is June 2006, almost four years later, when I drive over the Thomas Creek Bridge. I had just turned 28. Each year following her death I have aged one year older than she, my older sister, a fact seemingly at odds with nature. Gaining the perspective of age, I could tell her that things wouldn’t have stayed the same but for her the future could not be separated from that present which was painful beyond solace. I am alone on this trip, driving from San Francisco to Vancouver along the coast. It is this aloneness, the open spans of time driving and being close again to the ocean that prompt me to consider her with greater frequency. Feelings of uncertainty break into the detachment I became accustomed to in my relationship with her.

I pull off the road after crossing the bridge, returning to it on foot. Looking down, I contemplate those moments before her death; how others have told me they imagine it. My mother envisions her fall felt like flying, a release, and that she experienced the sensation of being caught by the arms of god. Her father believes she must have felt regret mid-air, experienced terror and a brutal impact. Our brother senses her determination was blinding, intuits her motions had to be quick, and hopes it was easy.

I cannot decide what I think. I did not understand her and don’t imagine that I will. I walk back to my car. There I scan my guidebook. It reads:

Between Gold Beach and Brookings, US-101’s windy, hilly roadbed is studded with the cliffside ocean vistas, giant conifers, and boomerang-shaped offshore rock formations of Samuel Boardman State Park. The park covers most of the ‘Fabulous 50’ miles between the two towns, and all of the above mentioned features come together at Natural Bridges Cove, just north of the Thomas Creek Bridge, the highest bridge on the coast north of San Francisco’s Golden Gate. Despite a sign, this turnout is easy to miss because, from the highway, it appears to be simply a parking lot fronting some trees; from the south end of the lot, however, a short trail through an old growth forest leads to a viewpoint several hundred feet above three natural rock archways standing out from an azure cove.

The description entices me. Natural bridges carved by waves sound beautiful and I am determined to see all that I can on this trip. I look around. This pull off looks like nothing but a forested front, there is a trail sign, so I start walking toward it. I pop my ear buds in, select a song from my roadtrip playlist and enter the forest.

Only a few hundred feet in on the trail I feel enclosed in the forest space. Below me, ascending with some struggle, evidenced by a shortness of breath, is an elderly couple. As I approach the woman mutters a question, had I seen any bridges, to which she is quickly shushed by her companion. I sense from this they have fought, she is exasperated, he (was reluctant to admit he was lost) feels responsible. I pretend to have not heard her, or him trying to silence her, because of my music. However I have one ear bud in and one out, by way of courtesy. I smile and pass on, then hesitate for a moment, realizing this path may not lead to the bridges. But I go on, not wanting to be behind them or to pass them; instead, welcoming the adventure of where I am. I walk down the sloped path, leading through a floor of ferns. Above are the Sitka Spruce, most without limbs at the lower levels. Up close their bark is thin and scaly. Sunrays break through the spaces between the trees. Mist moistens the air and I smell both dirt and salt.

The next man I meet carries a large tripod with a camera affixed to the top. He too is short of breath as he ascends the path I descend but his affect is entirely unlike the last pair. A smile beams from his face, his eyes are alive with delight, and the manner in which he intakes a breath indicates that he is eager to talk. I still have one ear bud in and one out but this time there is no music. Wary to be engaged, I leave it dangling as if there was. He talks anyway, blissfully open hearted, ignoring my efforts to distance. He tells me the views are great and jokingly asks if I brought my fog block. Like an angelic messenger, he instructs me to take the path to the left through the meadow at the fork. I smile appreciatively and leave it at that.

I reach the fork he described and take the left. It does not look as promising as the path down but I yearn for the beauty and openness reflected on his face. Soon I am waist high in blue Irises, bunches of white Queen Anne’s Lace, yellow wildflowers and grasses. Fog moves in, obscuring what lies ahead. The breeze picks up, inspiring me to sway a little bit in motion with my music. I feel a slight shift in my body, a release of the usual tension and control I carry. I imagine I can twirl and dance, even though my movements are still slight.

A bluff arises out of the fog, behind it only the lines of the ocean and the sky. The promise of another dramatic drop beckons me. As I approach the edge the absence of safety rails and barriers of any kind strikes me. There is nothing between me and the steep drop down. I could step off, a strong wind could push me, or I could topple accidentally, all with the same result of a fatal fall. My breath catches in my chest. I inhale once, twice, three times in rapid succession as if I am about to weep. The fog has cleared giving me a glimpse that straight down are rough, black, wind scarred rocks jutting out into the waves, creating an isolated beach. Here is a place no one could walk to, a place where no one would come upon you. Reminded of the man with the camera, I bring out my camera. But the view looks dull through my lens, flat and gray from the mist coming back in. I don’t even bother to push down the button. I look back, committing it instead to memory. Physically I feel in this view a risk and an appeal. I feel the struggle to stand still with the strong wind pushing at my body, the moisture in the air salty in my lungs as if I was inhaling tears, and the loud empty echo of waves, wind and silence of other life pounding at my ears.

Again the fog thickens, shrouding my sight. So I focus closer. Down from my feet, beyond where my steps could safely go were small trees, not much more than a foot in height, growing from small ledges in the rock face. They look fragile but I sense they have already endured a great deal, growing so exposed to the elements of the ocean winds. I turn. Behind me the meadow is also disappearing in fog. I have only sight of what is immediately near me, what I can touch, the present. I sense the abyss below and the vast space of what lies behind me but I cannot see it. Here an image of my sister, Feliciana, comes to me; or rather, a sensation. I feel what I imagine she might have felt before she jumped off the bridge: faith in the abyss, a mixing of fear and safety, beauty, only the present moment. My arms outstretch in front of me. I want to see them, feel the air with them, raise them above me for no one to see. I cry. The grief fills me up and spills out. I want to dance. Instead I whisper goodbye. I linger a moment more to remember and then I walk back to the meadow.

Here I put in my ear buds, sing aloud a song that makes me think of her, and start my ascent. I have crossed a bridge between the way down and the way up, one that connects me to her.