These Are Highlands

These are highlands, in a region of highlands, so not especially notable. It takes a long time to get there, though the graveled road is short enough; park and walk -- not far, but bring a lunch and water. Sign in; it's wilderness according to the kiosk and its map.

Immediately you have shade. These are Douglas fir, mountain hemlock, perhaps some red cedar. Beneath, on both sides the trail, a scattering of vine maple, ocean spray, rhododendron, and, in the draws, willow. Sometimes bear grass is in flower; not this year. As late season turns, first vanilla leaf, then devil's club, then red huckleberry, then the blue, will shade through gold to sienna to cranberry: cool nights.

Kinnickinnick under foot will be your sign you are straying; do not lose the path. Along the way are springs, but they are dry; near them are holes of mountain beaver, a town like that of prairie dogs. You will not see them; they go abroad at night. Admire twinflowers and trilliums, though they are past bloom. So it is as well with gooseberry and false Solomon's seal -- they are tired now, and long for snow.

As your path turns upon itself and climbs rocks and trees will change to andesite and alpine fir; soil to red dust, shrubs to ceanothus. Now you discover that view eyes come here to see; a mountainscape of scree and scarp and what remains of ice, not far away as the crows fly, yet leaning over miles of air, blue with smoke and firs.

You may eat, and drink your water, leaving some for your return. Wait here for me a bit while I go to see a stone nearby where both my parents’ ashes lie at rest.