Everywhere Looks Good From Here

Whenever I go out in the country I imagine how nice it would be to live there.  I stare intently at the landscape and wish I could look at the view from the window of a house right here, or over there.  This leads to  perpetual house hunting of the vaguest nature.  I am lucky to have a friend who is a realtor and  tolerates my temporary enthusiasms, because inevitably when she talks about getting pre-approved for a loan, or checking with the planning department about whether there are building restrictions, my dream house starts looking less like heaven on earth and more like a series of decisions that depend on comparing facts and figures.  Then my interest wanes until the next trip out of town.

It has been suggested that my behavior means that I don't want to live in the city and I am desperate to relocate anywhere that doesn't involve so many sidewalks, stoplights and coffee shops.  But I actually like the busy metropolis with all the possibilities for amusement.  It's just that when I see real land stripped and bare of human accoutrements, I just want to lie down and be absorbed into the scenery.   I think I sang 'This Land Is Your Land" one too many times as a child.

Luckily, we do find ways to get out where nature predominates.  Last weekend we went hiking along Siouxon Creek in Washington, about sixty miles from Portland.  The forest was covered with thick moss and popping mushrooms everywhere, and it embodied everything the northwest climate is famous for.  I looked at that moss and wanted to bed down in its softness.  What a place this earth is!

 
Here's a poem I wrote about this place, more than ten years ago.  Luckily, it hasn't changed.

Siouxon Creek

Down in hemlock, cedar, fern
everything is green, even air is algal,
the creek a punch of moss
champagne and liquor of leaf.
Mist swags treetops, a wreath of droplets
glazing needles, dripping into
effervescing waterfalls.
Tall snags carve totem poles
to gods of decay, before toppling
into bryophytic carpet.

I drive a gauntlet of clearcuts and hunters
to get here, and grumble over mountain
bike prints I tamp down on the trail,
but bathed in emerald light
discontent spills away,
within this narrow watershed of life.