7/5
No pressing deadlines today. Just a choice. To bike Hurricane Ridge, or lie fallow? The fellowship of the ridge were nine. Four stayed back to hike, read novels atop cushiony moss, observe lush temperate flora and fauna on a slow drip. Two different views of “the finest sample of primeval forest of Sitka spruce, western hemlock, Douglas fir, and western red cedar in the entire United States”.
The ridge riders set out after lazy breakfast and a woodsmoke blessing. Up turned out to be relatively easy with bikes de-panniered. The gradient was reminiscent of a Windows 95 PowerPoint background, seamless.
The view atop was reported to be “mountains”, and the gift shop was declared “top tier”, though it wouldn’t accept cash, meaning no cheap ice cream for the lactose enthused. Panorama scanned, the downhill jamboree commenced. Top speed achieved was 38 mph, and the ridge’s bluster proved frigid. Zach’s fender honked like an Aflac pitchman. Back in camp, Lowen tidied it up. Smooth as a Steve Ballmer pitch, we transitioned into hacky sacking.
During the climb, our in-camp crew was treated to all manner of wildlife cameos. A portly olive-sided flycatcher made mince of our chip scraps, hopping all over our cook set in the process. After tonight’s curry, it’ll probably never to stoop to fly catching again.
A yellow fellow, perhaps the evening grosbeak, flitted about like Harry Potter’s golden snitch. Ravens clicked and cawed, chipmunks side-eyed curiously, and deer with no parasympathetic response idled between campsites.
The temperate rainforest is quietly alive, in a state of heavenly decay. Every felled cedar is draped in moss as it merges back into the earth. The fungi bloom and bead themselves with dew jewels; the rain nourishes and decomposes incessantly. The hands of entropy work on a scale beyond conception.
Life rolls, oozes, streams, falls, flows on. We have
no place to be but here. Here we are. Tomorrow we’re gone. The forest exhales.
