Forget me not at trailside, western bleeding heart! We climbed a thousand feet of forest, Douglas fir and sword fern.
Came out upon a bare crest, the broad sweep of Drake’s Bay spread out before us in distant mist. “Hello, ocean,” I thought, and a rush of wind-swept feather came, a raven, who sped to us, circled one long loop and went back the way she came. At seven miles we reached the Pacific and raven came again, shifting course to fly low over our heads and yell in glee.
Twelve miles, almost, and 2080 feet climbed — 74 and 13,380 for the year — and 40,000 Strongbad references made in 7 hours. The truck still four miles away, Allison begain to whistle Colonel Bogey’s March but swore it was unintentional. Two and a half miles in I shot some huckleberry blossoms. “Ranger Rick says ‘Take only photos, leave only footprints,’” said my niece.
“You’re not even supposed to leave footprints now,” I said.
She considered this for a second. “Ranger Rick says, ‘Go the hell away.’”
Trillium and waterfalls, Camissonia and Ranunculus, invasive damned sublime Sparaxis. Horsetail pushed through the dripping earth. Coast Creek sang its way to the Ocian.
