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The Mountains of the Night
Chapter Three
And leadeth me beside still waters
although the waters of the Quinalt River were hardly still on that longest hike I ever took, the 58 miles through the Olympics in the summer of 1976. It was so amazing. For ten miles we hiked along the Quinalt River; we hiked through red alder forests with the ground covered in grasses and small broad-leafed plants with little pale yellow flowers and the river was just over there. Just beyond the vine maples. The river was pale white from ground rock that was slowly and forever pulverized by glaciers far up the valley. It was a hot day, 80 or 85, but the forest was dark and silent and cool. No one said much, it was just walk, walk, walk. The pack was heavy and it pulled on my shoulders and the waist strap rode up on my waist and it was a little uncomfortable. I had the heaviest pack, I think 50 pounds? I didn't dare weigh it, we didn't have a scale at home anyway, and besides, I didn't want to be shocked at really knowing just how much I was carrying. What goes into the pack? On the bottom, extra clothing, socks, underwear, a wool sweater, pants, gloves. On top of that, a first aid kit, matches, flashlight, mess kit, stove, coat, an ace bandage, and so forth and on top of that, food: instant potatoes, eight packages of Gatorade, powdered milk, sausage, a huge brick of cheese, and candy; one pound of food a day for six days.
This was what I carried in my pack, along with bug repellent, extra fuel, and so forth and so on. And we walked and walked in sunlight through the trees, sunlight making bright and luminous pools of light in the shadow-dark of forest floor. We entered now a forest of maples, with three or four inches of thick moss growing on the trunks and moss hanging from the limbs. By this time it was noon, the second day. "Lunch break," I wheezed.
"Yeah," said Jason, a burly fair-haired sincere looking fellow, the kind of guy Madison Avenue uses for, say, selling insurance or beds on TV.
Behind him Jack, tall, lanky with black beard, bright eyes and a chin that sat forward. There was Mark, hefty, grinning, very boyish and full of good humor; he had a walrus mustache and long blond hair. We sat and ate and slapped flies. I munched a hard roll, ate cheese, drank Gatorade and hoped that we'd gone a lot farther than I thought we had. Somewhat reluctantly, I asked Jason, "Just where are we? It's noon, we must be at the six mile mark, eh?"
"Um," he said, and he frowned and scratched his scalp through an immense jungle of gray hair. He dug out his contour map from his pack. As he munched a Red Delicious apple, he studied the map. "Okay," he said, "I think we're here." He pointed to a green, shaded area between the blue ink of the river and brown lines denoting a ridge of 100 feet. "So," he ran his finger along the river and made clicking noises, "I guess we have about four miles to get to the chalet."
"Hm," I said. "About what, two more hours?"
"Yeah," he said. "We should be in the valley about two-thirty, three o'clock."
"Faster if we jog," said Jack.
"Fuck you," said Jason.
"No wait," I said, "that's a good idea. Let's give him all our packs and he can jog and we'll take it easy."
"Fuck you," said Jack, and he laughed.
"Poor sport," said Mark.
More laughter. After a few more minutes, the bugs got worse and it was time to move on anyway. All of us looked a little askance and a bit forlornly at those packs. All of us were sweating profusely, our shirts wet and we struggled with our packs to get them on. I said something to the effect of, "Ain't recreation fun? Isn't it neat to be big, strong males? Aren't we better citizens for doing this?"
"Aren't you going to shut up?" asked Mark.
"Oh," I laughed, "shut down! You're shutting me down. And I didn't set myself up for it. It's just coming out of the blue, totally unexpected and has nothing to do with me at all."
Jack looked to Jason. "How do you shut him up?"
Jason laughed. "No one shuts down Bruce. He just sort of deflates after awhile."
I sneered. "Careful Jason, I got friends in high places."
"Agh!" he laughed, "stop it! stop it!"
More laughter and we were on our way once again. I went into something of a daze thinking about the day before: meeting at Mark's house at six a.m. in south Seattle, dropping off my car at the Skokomish/Staircase Ranger Station near Hood Canal, stopping for coffee and everyone getting to know each other a bit better, someone remarking about frogs that change color and I think I made the comment about "mood frogs." It was all very crazy and then the topic turned to the weather, how gray it was outside and our hopes that it wouldn't rain. Then it was the long drive to the other trailhead at the north end of Lake Quinalt -- 130 miles again -- and by the time we got there, it was three in the afternoon and a light rain was falling. A rather hefty, burly and very tall forest ranger was there, a vast vessel of good humor and wise, witty sayings who was obviously enjoying himself as we all talked. He told us there were bears about and to be careful and to not feed them pork chops or we might feed them our entire arm as well. He wished us a good trip; the rain really came down and it was on with ponchos. With sour faces and hurried walk, we sought to find a suitable place to camp before it got too late or the weather too obnoxious. Three or four miles later, we did indeed find a place on the river, set up camp, built a fire and listened to the rain tap-tap-tap on leaves and tents. Occasionally we all griped about the weather, hoped it would be clear in the morning, etc.
The next morning was beautiful, sunny and bright, and before long, we were on the trail, after generous amounts of coffee, gorp, hard-boiled eggs, and hot chocolate. By afternoon, about three o'clock, we came to a swinging foot bridge, sturdy, rather modern and well constructed, that swung gently some 20 feet above the river as we walked it. A few more feet, rounding a bluff and there! Ah! The Enchanted Valley. I think we all gasped simultaneously -- ah! Just to the west, quarter mile perhaps, rose a sheer rock wall 4000 to 5000 feet, and it went for as far as we could see, perhaps three or four miles. We kept walking and came to a chalet, an abandoned hotel that could house thirty or so people. We sat outside of it, in the dry and yellow grass. The valley floor was flat and wide, maybe a half a mile. Large cottonwoods grew tall and the leaves turned in the wind; the silver green of the backs, the dark green of the fronts gave the effect of glittering. The sun shone on the leaves and they were brilliant. Behind the trees were immense cliffs, and waterfalls a few hundred feet high tumbling off the cliffs, in dark shadow. The top of the ridge was in fog, and against that background the leaves of the cottonwoods shuddered and trembled: silver-green, green, silver-green, green and it was heart breaking and beautiful and I felt blessed to be there, sitting with friends in that yellow grass with those leaves dancing in the light of the sun. It was as though I was back in New Zealand for that was the way New Zealand was, broad valleys, immense cliffs and waterfalls and chalets, and I could not believe I was in Washington, in a place some 80 miles west of Seattle. After a few more minutes of being rather dumbfounded, we shrugged our packs on again and decided to hike until six.
After a while, the valley narrowed and we began hiking on gravel bars, with the river, now much leaner, rushing just feet away. Among trees, we found a place to camp. After dinner of cheese mixed with potatoes and ramen, we built a fire. Then we explored a bit and noticed something fluttering through the air.
"What's that? A bird?" asked Jason.
Jack looked about. "Huh. Never seen a bird fly like that." Again, whatever it was, flew by.
"God damn--a U.F.C.--Unidentified Flying Critter," I said.
"It's a bat," said Mark, "It's a bat."
Again, the creature flew by, then flew over a slow pool of water, skimming the surface as though, "Drinking," said Jason. "It's trying to get a drink."
"Here it comes again," I said.
This time, the bat landed in the water. We ran up to it as it ducked its head beneath the water.
"It's inhaling the water," I said.
"Batacide!" said Jack. "Get it out of the water, it's drowning."
"No," said Mark, "it may have rabies."
"You think it's intentional?" asked Jack.
"Sure looks like it," said Mark.
The bat was still now. Jason fished it out and laid the small bat on a flat rock. "It's dead," I said. In the gathering darkness, beneath cloudy skies, I sat. I continued to sit, after the others had gone back to the campfire. Intentional? I wondered, intentional death? Was something wrong with this creature -- sick -- and it knew it had to die, that this was the time? Was it simply an accident? No, no, it was not, for the bat made no effort for breath, and did not struggle to survive.
I do not understand this, I thought, I cannot comprehend what has happened. I cannot. And I was surprised because doesn't everything have a reason? Isn't there an Ultimate Truth to this all? Isn't it true if you look hard and long enough, you will find The Answer? Little brown bat, lying there, your warmth ebbing away, taken by the stones, the air.
Little creature. Little creature. Infinitely small yet infinitely great expression of the Spirit of Being, infinitely tough and infinitely gentle expression of the Will to Life--so now you lay it down. You still your heart, you quiet your being, for as it was when it was time for Being to enter you and form the flesh that made you, little brown bat, so now it was time for that Will to leave. And maybe there was no reason at all except That it Was Time, just as it was time for you to be. Little creature, you who lived for the same reason as I -- no more, no less -- little flying wonder who was as much a wonder to me as my form and being is to myself -- good-bye. Little yang turning to yin, little light becoming dark, little plant falling and becoming Earth again. Glorious, glorious, glorious to live, and forms of all life being like diamonds shining with internal sun. I looked up to the endlessness of trees and knew of the forest, of deer and bear, eagle and elk, squirrel and moss, insect and man.
I felt the wind in my lungs, the cool touch of air on my skin and pressure of my clothing, the darkness of the evening and knew that I was a part of the embodiment of The Dance; the fantastic weaving and step of chlorophyll and blood, fur and tooth, finger and fin and hoof and paw and foot, and I thought, perhaps the Indians knew you best, Being. When they talked of the Great Spirit, they talked not of just The Dance, they talked of the magic of the Dancers dancing. They talked of the Magic of Being presenting itself in an infinity of forms. They talked of a Magic, a profound beauty of being that Western Man chooses not to grasp. They talked of rock, of stone breaking and from it butterflies and horse and Douglas Firs and fish and finally me--emerging.
I breathed in deeply the air, the night and swallowed. Spirit -- I know not what you are, I know not if you are conscious or unconscious, but I am of something both frightening and eloquent. I cannot explain my birth, I cannot explain my form, the time in which I was born, the time I am to die. I am in control of ultimately--little. I am only different from all that surrounds me in that I can talk of my feelings as well as act upon them--but do I even know that for certain? For when a creature stalks another, does it not seem that there is much "thought" going on in that? Does there not seem much intent, much rationality in how all survives? For if it were not so, nothing could have survived. I looked at the little brown bat in the darkness. Little creature, you did not have to die. Little creature, there was far, far too much intent in what you did. Far too rational, no struggle for survival -- you knew the water was there, you skimmed it once, and you came back -- you did not struggle and you died. You did not struggle to breathe. I watched you. I watched you plunge your head into the water to flood your lungs.
I breathed out a long breath, suddenly aware of just how intelligent the Universe was. I looked again to the bat on the rock. I shall honor your last request, little friend. I took a stick and placed the little bat back in the water; to let it drift down that slow current to I know not where. That is what you wanted, I thought, and that is what you shall have.
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