A Day With Robert Service

A dear friend once wrote me a letter in which he quoted a passage from a poem by the great Robert Service. No high brow T.S. Eliot but the unofficial poet laureate of the gold rush and now patron saint of any and all cowboy poets. Incidentally my friend and I were both travelers, we both quoted Melville as we set out to sea from different ports, and both of us quoted Abby as we entered the wilds of Utah and the Northwest. Whether his letter was a warning to himself wrapped in an envelope addressed to me or a prophetic voice of what could become is now a question whose origin is too far gone to dig up, the dead should stay buried. In it he quotes "He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half....he is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win." Often I wonder if the timeless words of Robert Service would be applicable, if I were a half measure man. Each day is a chance to answer that question. 

This morning reminded me that this is the beginning of my favorite time of year. When I wake, make coffee, and head out long before the sun crests the Cascades the moist morning air has the heaviness of a wool blanket,  seems to hold all things in silence, suspended delicately between dream and waking, a no mans land where memory itself has no foothold. The storm I longed for Thursday night has gladly persisted, it's consequences made manifest as I drove the winding roads up to Mount Baker. A young Alder had fallen across both lanes of travel. My ax made quick work of it. There's a feeling of a hickory handle sliding through the hands, fingers reading the taper and swell as clear as braille, grasping firmly as the iron bites into timber that cannot be taught. Somethings would be unknowable if not for the feel of them.  Happy with the mornings efforts I navigated the ever degenerating forest service roads, arriving to a deserted trail head at first light. I knew what waited ahead, after all, I do my research but a singular thought kept coming to the fore of my mind as I walked: It has been raining on the mountain. When one navigates a slot canyon under a blue bird sky the question of rain is one of upmost importance. Here it is always to be considered. The roar was audible a half mile out, the hollow clacking of boulders punctuated the din within a quarter mile. That which was a minor inconvenience was now a problem to be solved, Down in Tennessee the lightening storms would send fractals of light from horizon to horizon. Here the water branched in a terrestrial mirror image carving new pathways, widening those from before. I surveyed up and down stream with the goal of staying dry. Each place where I could cross one branch only left me on the banks of a deeper, more complicated one. Wisdom said to strip, the temperatures were cold and would be colder at the elevation I was seeking. Strip and suffer the shock but have dry warm clothes on the other side. Being that this was a day hike it seemed too extreme a thing to do.  So finding a log I could maneuver, jamming it in place where I could use it for one foot, it being too thin for both, and the other leap frogging from boulder to boulder I congratulated myself on being a clever boy, set out into the center of the surging water and fell, boulders are not immovable objects. Waxed pants reached their saturation, boots filled with water, embarrassed I made my way back to shore. It is here in this moment the question once again made an appearance...am I a half measure man. I had done the risk assessment. Hypothermia was a legitimate concern, being alone and hypothermic are not optimal conditions on a fog shrouded mountain. In truth discomfort was the only true malady.   Already wet I entered the water to my waist using the placed log to keep from being swept down stream and arrived on the other side. Most people seek out these places for the expansive vistas but I seek the other world, the veiled, hidden world. Into that world I walked, hands growing thick, feet unfeeling but each step was a new sight. One cloud bank would rise only for another to whirl up from the valley or inexplicably grow dense, impenetrable. In that world of changing veils a black bear and I surprised each other, five feet away. We stood briefly, suspended in time. He was beautiful and terrifying yet all the more beautiful for it. Luckily, he was a black bear and not brown, staying true to his disposition he turned and silently went back into the fog. At least for today I have my answer.