It’s 80 degrees as if summer already. I’m on the Lower MacLeay, one of the most popular trails in Forest Park. When I lived in the neighborhood I walked its length almost daily and was familiar with every section. The place where the creek runs along a wide gravely shore just a tad lower than the trail. The place a small green pool forms between narrow banks. The spot flanked by a high rock wall that’s covered in ferns. The stretch with a wide, flat rock in the middle.
Today I feel the same deep familiarity and utter strangeness with this trail as when seeing an ex. There are plenty of landmarks I recognize but they are interrupted with unfamiliar foliage, reconstructed bridges and obscured views. I feel like a tourist by the time I cross Cornell.
As I walk up the hill I feel suddenly and viscerally at home. It’s rush hour. I can hear the constant roar of traffic on the road below but I am filled with peaceful belonging.
I wonder about home. Do we have a preordained place we belong despite any roots we have set down elsewhere? Is our birthplace our only true home that we shirk off in the name of progress? Or do we create home wherever we care enough to get involved, to fall in love with the place and not just our doings?
The latter seems logical. Yet having spent four years in Multnomah Village, another ten working there, having walked all over its streets and parks feeling deep affection for its forested beauty I still feel like a traveler. Do I simply need another 4 years? Maybe I need to buy a house here to be welcome, what with all the “Stop Rezoning” signs around. I believe we can preserve the uniqueness of our neighborhoods while allowing housing for people of all incomes to be built but its a touchy issue for many.
I pass the Cumberland Trail which reminds me of my first love. I know a lot of people don’t think Sasquatch exists but I’m pretty sure I dated him. I never asked, I just assumed that as cameras became more prevalent he shaved, moved into a basement studio in the West Hills of Portland and got a job in a medical office. He’s a sensitive soul, maladapted for city life but he loved to wander in the woods as much as I so we got a long for a bit.
We met on this trail and would take the Cumberland from his old street into the park for our walks.
I hike to the Upper MacLeay then sit on a bench admiring the gentle way the Oregon grape plants on the slope move in the breeze. I listen to an Orange-crowned Warbler, juncos, jays, and Pacific Wrens all making their distinct songs the way each plant along the tail has its own distinct shapes of leaves.
When I think back to my most innocent self, home is where there are bluebells, daffodils, rhodies and hydrangea bushes, Doug fir, White Oak and Big Leaf Maple. There are the songs of robins, Red-winged Blackbirds, Bob White Quail, jays, flickers, nuthatches and chickadees. But this feeling of belonging makes me want to fit somewhere on a molecular level.
I consider the Chinook, the Cowlitz, the Atfalati who were violently forced from this land. Even though their molecules, and the molecules of the place, are one in the same. It seems disrespectful to dwell on these lofty questions, to want stolen land to be my fated place. So being the descendant of settlers I’ll have to settle for the old adage home is where the heart is.
Sasquatch was not good with money and often predicted future homelessness for himself. Every so often I check the internet to make sure he’s still alive. He doesn’t share his data the way the rest of us do. The first time all I found was a marathon finish time buried in the local paper. Since he loves to run, it was enough.
This is my first time at Riverview Natural Area. It is like a neglected patch of woods behind someone’s house—growing over with ivy, crisscrossed with ill-planned trails. I expect to see a few tree-houses or forts but they’re absent. At least the city took the time to number the trails and mark them with laminated paper stapled to stakes.
I feel like a neglected patch of woods myself these days, overgrown with the desire to not feel my own reality after heartlessly severing a six-year friendship because it housed an on-and-off romance that kept me from getting on with life.
It’s nice to be out under the trees even if everything seems unremarkable in the light of my mood. I cross a log so wide I sit on it and swing my legs over. I stand up to find a big, wet spot of fresh bird poop on my camel-colored corduroy skirt. This would normally be funny. A bird-lover is eventually going to meet with bird excrement. But it’s squishy and I feel oddly embarrassed about walking the trails and riding my bike home with a poop spot on my skirt, as if people will know and assume it’s my own.
I pour most of my water bottle out while trying to rub the debris out of the soft ribbing in my skirt and then keep walking, unconcerned that I might now look like I peed myself.
The trail starts to head steeply downward toward Macadam and I consider that I just rode my bike up this same slope through the cemetery, that I had to rest a few times along the way and that I may not be happy arriving at the bottom to have to climb all the way back up again.
I turn around, resigned to an unadventurous walk getting up-to-date on my requisite encounters with bird poop. Doing the best I can to reckon with the edges of emptiness around a pain in my heart that will slowly fade in the recognition that the hardest way isn’t always the most noble.
The scent of Magnolia blossoms draws me along the trail into their grove. The blossoms form colored clouds and layer against each other in the green, adding a murky aliveness to the quivering air as it makes room for the bursting buds and rain droplets.
One crow forages alone at the edge of a large grassy slope punctuating the green. When I look down the trail I see flashes of other crows slipping between the trees. The cloud cover deepens their black feathers so they drip through the woods like oil.
I sit on a bench and reach into the lace of bird song for the familiars: Scrub Jays, Yellow Warblers, Dark-eyed Juncos, Spotted Towhees, and crows. A woman walks past so engrossed in her phone her steps seem suspended. I do not exist in her attention even peripherally and I wonder if this how a forest creature feels, hiding in its own stillness as we pass unaware.
The rain drops become larger as I write in my sketchbook so I get on the trail again and head for the picnic shelter.
A Spotted Towhee darts across the trail from one brushy cover to another. I feel as though my whole life is the same sort of comic but necessary dash; so I stop to photograph the rusty hues of dead salal leaves and draw a few buds from the spray of spring twigs along the trail.
I came here to admire magnolia blossoms. How delicate and soft the petals are, even on blossoms larger than my hands. Now I have forgotten all about them and find myself snuggled on all sides by the viscosity of green things sending ripples of growth across the air as they turn light and water into fiber.
I want today to be the day everything changes. The day I walk into beauty and never come back. All I have to do is stop minding my worries. They can fuss around me like small children while I dwell in each growing moment unimpressed with their complaints.
A junco flies in and hops around the rivets of the shelter support. Another one lands on the trash and peers into its dark opening. He sees nothing of interest and flies off.
Today is a warm, blossoming day and the first day of spring. I am lounging outdoors on my friend’s porch in Sabin with a sprained ankle. This porch—surrounded by neighborhood trees and blue skies—is so decadent that I don’t feel bad about being laid up.
The wind rushes through the tall fir with the spray of ocean sounds, rattles the branches of the blossoming deciduous trees on the other side of the block, then rushes through the fir again.
Dead leaves skitter across the driveway. Crows pass over now and again cawing. The traffic, the chirp of sparrows and goldfinches, the clatter of a cyclist all wend their lush sounds into my ears and bring me back down to earth.
A soda can cracks open in the house. My friend comes out to check on me. I show him my sketches. He talks about mini computers, knobs, switches and 3D printed brackets for LED lights. I absorb every twelfth word and feel bad about my poor friendship skills.
Meanwhile finches sing in the treetops while kids holler like violent death at a nearby park.
Shadows flit back and forth across the porch, the old green couch, and my lap. Then a bird shaped shadow sails across the light. I look up to see two sparrows hopping about in last year’s wisteria plucking bits of twigs before flying off.
A breeze cools my face and carries a dry leaf down the sidewalk. An insect passes; its light body hovering here and there in the open air. Crows again. The screen door creaks on its own volition. Wind chimes tinker. A car whooshes by.
A little hair blows in front of my face and I remember myself separate from the warmth, the peaceful goings-on of eternity as it tends to its everyday chores on the block. It’s suddenly crystal clear I have been doing everything backwards; thinking myself into a person, into a purpose, a quest to find beauty even though it is exactly where I left it.
The chimes pick up again as the ocean sings through the fir while car stereos add beats from two different directions.
When I arrive at Marshall Park, three Varied Thrushes scatter from the trail-head into the trees. I walk down to the bridge, over the creek, past the playground and up the trail—hopefully on my way to Tryon Creek State Park. Last time I got lost and wandered along a thin, overgrown deer trail with the absurd notion that this trail on a map of walking routes put out by the city, is simply not well used.
As I descend toward the creek I see a trail on the other side I hadn’t noticed before. I realize this is where the path became unreliable before so I cross the wide log over the creek and follow the new trail along the water and up the bank to the road.
A couple blocks away is the trail-head into Tryon. The woods feel open where the creek winds through a wide marshy area, especially without the leaves of the deciduous trees filling in the space.
I walk through the park admiring the maple blossoms and budding leaves springing up right next to the remnants of fall: old seedpods still hanging on the branches, leaves stuck in the cruxes.
Above me, Chestnut-backed Chickadees sing to each other in a cloud of high-pitched chatter. One peeks over a mossy branch before darting off into the high branches. Down the trail I find a sunny bench to have lunch on while listening to a barred owl sing and watching people walk their dogs past. I eat two bread heels out of a bread bag identical to the one my sandwich is in at home in the fridge.
On the way back I startle several more groups of Varied Thrushes, the bold black and white stripes on the underside of their wings striking against the deep greens of the forest. A female perches next to a broken branch right above the trail, her lovely orange breast the exact same color as the inside of the tree where it has broken.
I cross the log again and head up the hill, noticing this part of the trail is in a process of erosion, which makes it unlikely to be a city-sanctioned trail. I pass an unmarked fork farther up and get out my map to check my route. This was my wrong turn. I was supposed to take the narrower trail to the street.
I’m sad that the use of this enchanting path is not good for the creek and all the life it supports, I was looking forward to coming back but I don’t want to wreck one a the few natural areas in the city.
I walk the rest of the way home and eat my sandwich finally. It tastes all the better for having been missed.
Ivy Hill was the first place I fell in love with when I moved back to Corvallis. A wide trail loops around the hill on one side ascending to it’s peak where one can stand in the bare meadows and look down on the charming city of Corvallis shrouded in its many trees. In Autumn fog writes intrigue with the silhouettes of twisted trees. In winter clouds lay heavy in their grey mist passing over the ocher grass. In summer the blue sky shapes itself into jagged panes between each unruly branch.
I arrived in Spring and felt as though my heart was the exact shape of the sky above the contours of North Corvallis. I felt so snug back in its familiar hills, creeks, and the forested slough slipping into the Willamette.
Today I am here on a visit after moving away. I head up the trail and miss the deep fir-filled woods that used to flank the sides of the hill before the oak release. The startling beauty of oaks against the skyline should salve the loss but I do not feel quite at home in the restored oak savanna.
Without ambition or binoculars I spot and hear several acorn woodpeckers,
Ivy Hill was the first place I fell in love with when I moved back to Corvallis. A wide trail loops around the hill on one side, ascending its peak, where one can stand in the bare meadows and look down on the charming city of Corvallis shrouded in its many trees. In autumn the fog writes intrigue with the silhouettes of twisted trees. In winter, clouds lay heavy in the grey mist as it passes over the ocher grass. In summer the blue sky shapes itself into jagged panes between each unruly branch.
I arrived in spring and felt as though my heart was the exact shape of the sky above the contours of North Corvallis. I felt so snug in its familiar hills, creeks, and the forested slough slipping into the Willamette.
Today I am here after moving to Portland. I head up the trail and miss the deep fir-filled woods that used to flank the sides of the hill before the oak release. The startling beauty of oaks against the skyline should salve the loss, but I do not feel quite at home in the restored oak savanna.
Without ambition or binoculars I spot and hear several Acorn Woodpeckers, one of the species in decline the oak release aimed to make habitat for. Even the oaks themselves were not doing well with so many evergreens crowding them. I didn’t used to see Acorn Woodpeckers this far east so I assume this project is a success.
I walk up the hill looking for the distinct white spots on the wings of the Acorn Woodpecker as they fly from tree to tree. I stop to admire a group of juncos crossing the trail together. A little grey bird flits about in the branches alongside the trail with a patch of yellow on its sides which I reason is an immature or female Yellow-rumped Warbler.
At the top of the hill I spot a couple White-breasted Nuthatches high in an oak. A Western Bluebird flies by and I look out across the valley wondering if it will spark the same sense of paradise and good fortune it did when I moved here.
It was so peaceful to be in Corvallis the first two years, staying with my folks on eleven acres along the slough, working two days a week at a cafe, riding my bike here and there in no particular hurry, painting in the woods. When I got a full-time job the small town charm vanished instantly. Then they cut down the firs in Chip Ross Park, gathered the debris in piles all across Ivy Hill to burn. I grieved the smoldering coals but knew it was right for them to do it. I also knew it was right for me to be here with my dad at the end of his life and suspected that the snugness of my heart had more to do with him than the hills.
I hear some hollow drumming as I walk down the other side of the hill blinded by the afternoon sun.
I look up into the oak by the trail, shading my eyes to see a Pileated Woodpecker working away, striking in its size and brilliant red crest. I stay and watch it until it slides around the back of the tree, still pecking at the bark.
This morning I woke up to find a fresh undisturbed blanket of snow on the ground. A rarity in the Willamette Valley, I decided to go to Gabriel Park to admire the trees and riparian brush under the wintry elegance.
I pass through Spring Garden Park, deeply sloped it has attracted many sledders making impressive use of a scant inch of snow.
I stop at the cafe to say hi to my waitress friends who are mostly unoccupied. There are two customers in the restaurant. No matter how little snow is on the ground it’s almost always wet here and the temperature is generally just above or just below freezing so people are terrified to leave their homes. It’s an easy target for humor; Portland acting like an inch of snow is a life threatening blizzard. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that no one is really great at driving on ice which is what we most often end up with on the roads.
The traffic creeps slowly along the boulevard as I head up the hill to the park admiring the amazing lace of the trees, a Stellar’s jay quietly perched on the top of a branch and two Anna’s buzzing past me with alarming closeness en route to a feeder.
Gabriel Park is dazzling. The star-like patterns of white on fir boughs, polka dots of white in bare brambles, the structure of each brushy swath of woods illuminated by gravity and snow’s brilliance. Everyone I pass looks buoyant and privileged to be out in the spectacle.
Crows call across the woods to each other and I get distracted from the loveliness. I think about what a headache it will be to paint snow in watercolor. This is the territory of artists who like to paint boat docks and architecture.
I try my best to come back and enjoy the day, to trust the struggle to paint will yield something more interesting than expertise would. Something one could at least cut up and use in a collage.
I manage a couple minutes of contentment then start plotting the most efficient route through my favorite parts of the park to take on days I am too tired or cold for a leisurely stroll. I discover I am already on the most efficient route and consider there is some metaphor in there.
The next day I walk through Spring Garden Park again on a loop through the neighborhood. The ground is frozen and crunchy under my feet. The cold gray sky feels larger than normal, or maybe nearer, certainly more exposing. There are only little bits of snow left here and there. The robins collect in holly bushes feasting on the red berries.
I’m absorbed today, as I so often am, considering my direction. A serial haver-of-epiphanies, a connoisseur of fresh starts, I will do everything to make my life lovely except actually believe in myself. I imagine living a personally meaningful life instead of a productive one as a long drive on a solid sheet of ice instead of a stroll through one’s favorite parts of the woods. I don’t really need another reason to judge myself so I decide that when it comes to one’s path in life the shorter route won’t do. Perfection won’t do. Adventures like learning to believe in the compass of one’s own heart should not be abbreviated.
A crow swoops out of a bare tree leaving his partner to pick at the moss for bugs in the bare branches.
A scrub jay flies across the street holding something bright orange in his beak, a bright orange ort that perfectly compliments his blue body.
It’s sunny and I head north on a walk with a tiny grocery list is in my pocket because I love the quaintness of doing errands by foot. I cross Barbur and meander through South Burlingame to the park, past the playgrounds and abandoned tennis court, then up the hill to a quiet street where a shrine of various toys and figurines collect dirt on an ivy covered burm.
I take the stairs down the other side of the hill and watch a Cooper’s Hawk hunt in a neighbor’s yard. He dives into the ivy but comes up with nothing before disappearing around the backside of the house, each movement so quick it is only the distinct stripes on his tail that confide his identity.
When I get to the store I select my groceries by weight so my book bag won’t be too heavy going home. I decide to bring my backpacking pack next time so I can distribute the weight onto my hips and buy more food. To be honest, I feel squeamish about the impracticalities of my idealism. No one is going to be happy to bag my groceries into a deep outdoor backpack, and placing the eggs just right will be an act of unwieldy devotion. In my twenties I refused to buy a car, new clothes or even packaged food. One day I felt I needed some clear tape and it was a moral dilemma. I bought the tape but I’m not sure if I have forgiven myself yet.
I felt like an inspiration for good stewardship but, in retrospect, I was just a grim and neglected shrine to impossible ideals.
I leave the store and take Bertha to a little natural area with a trail along a creek. The first time I came here it was dusk. I locked my bike up along the road and descended toward the creek, raising the ire of a large group of crows. The dark sprawling branches of willows with their odd, obtuse angles in the dim light were enhanced by the birds Hitchcock-like menace.
Now it is midday and there is not a single crow here. There is an Anna’s Hummingbird singing it’s lungs out, robins hopping about the ground listening for worms, a couple Song Sparrows calling. The crows are probably on my roof eating the bread crumbs the neighbor leaves out
I stop and sketch the brambly woods a bit then head home on a foot path that sashays up the hill through the unmanicured neighborhood. Sometimes dirt, sometimes gravel, sometimes the bend of a narrow paved lane or the cracked pavement at the end of a cul-de-sac, sometimes lined by ivy or cut deeply by run-off the path carries me over the hill past blackberries and disheveled gardens, a wooden cart with wheels sunk in the mud, a tarped boat. At the crest there’s some fragrant cedars and at least one Doug fir so tall the wind sings through its needles like the ocean.
At home I put my groceries away, enamored with my tiny adventure. I have a car, so it’s a privilege for me to indulge in these quaint notions of life. It’s a shrine I’m building to a slower and possibly fictional time when people weren’t cogs in a fast moving economy. I don’t want it to become grim with the notion that it’s the right thing to do.
I trudge up the steep side street on my way to the woods, hoping to walk my way out of a mood I got into after my counselor wondered aloud if I shouldn’t make art into more of, say, a hobby.
I hate the word hobby but I also hate channeling my passion into business ideas so I decided to try this suggestion out. Then, after rearranging my studio, I found myself grieving as if having lost a love. Sobbing often and uncontrollably was a new and alarming thing for me, but I’d always wanted to be one of those heart-feeling types.
After I cross the highway I walk down gravel streets wondering what my former and admired therapist would say about this. He had such a quiet spirit that it radiated a tangible and pithy compassion. As though his life was a large ship with a cracked hull that he beached on the shore and loved as-is instead of repairing. There it filled with seawater, rust and starlight, sinking into the sand and each night’s black sky.
I walk into the woods where the trees are unusually luminous, as though they are also considering starlight as their lost branches break into the soil at their feet.
I approach the park’s mandala and notice a Varied Thrush on the ground. I delight in his dapper orange brows and the deep gray crescent across his breast before he startles and flies into the branches above the circle of flower petals, pine-cones, seedpods and winter berries.
I once met the woman who keeps this mandala. She had a mischievous, uplifting presence; it wasn’t a surprise when she mentioned the local paper gave her the job title, Fairy.
On the way back home I think more about boats and how I see my love of art as a mystical skiff that keeps me afloat in the great unknown more reliably than beliefs or relationships, even if I have some other calling I’ve missed. Sometimes we need job titles for our deeper livelihoods and not everyone understands.
Suddenly I feel my feet in the dirt by the road. The sunshine that is all around empties my thoughts for a few moments. Each step feels to be a gift; I’m here on this one tree-lined street, on this giant planet, in my own pithy aliveness filled with starlight and lost branches.