Mistletoe and Mists
Yesterday T and I took one of our outings. Down the valley this time to Champoeg Park. The Gorge was iced in. We even got a brief break between showers to walk about 2 miles.
The first thing that struck me about the park are the ancient oaks thrusting their twiggy arms out in all directions, creating a lacework of shadows. Among those crossed lines, thick and thin, were huge knots of mistletoe. This magical parasite is nearly invisible when leaves and acorns grace the trees. But as the sap, the life blood of the massive trees retreats for a winter rests, and the leaves fall away leaving a naked and vulnerable oak, the mistletoe shows itself, alive and vibrant, sucking vitality from the tree, and yet taking only enough to keep itself going. I wonder if the instincts of Mistletoe let it know when to stop, limiting the drain on the tree's lifeforce, for a dead oak means no more sustenance.
Even though we walked between showers in a nearly empty park, the air was filled with moisture, rising in mists above the river and the creeks. Almost like swimming through the air, sloshing through puddles, and stepping around tiny creeks flowing from accumulations on the prairie back into the nearest ditch, and from thence into the creeks and the river. A constant flow of water from above down, following the line of gravity, like seeking like.
Then I tried to remember the names of all the rivers and creeks we'd crossed during our trips. We always seem to peer out the car windows when we cross one. This time of year every crack and depression in the land is filled (and overfilled) with water. Salmon River, Sandy River, Wildwood Creek, Alder Creek, Willamette River, Champoeg Creek, Mollala River. Those are just the ones I remembered. Many are not even named. Flowing water, ever changing, ever constant, defines the Pacific Northwest. Waterfalls and mists permeate our souls. Angry water, muddy and churning, bright water, clear and chuckling, tired water, slow and chugging. Are we a reflection of this essential element or does it reflect us?
The first thing that struck me about the park are the ancient oaks thrusting their twiggy arms out in all directions, creating a lacework of shadows. Among those crossed lines, thick and thin, were huge knots of mistletoe. This magical parasite is nearly invisible when leaves and acorns grace the trees. But as the sap, the life blood of the massive trees retreats for a winter rests, and the leaves fall away leaving a naked and vulnerable oak, the mistletoe shows itself, alive and vibrant, sucking vitality from the tree, and yet taking only enough to keep itself going. I wonder if the instincts of Mistletoe let it know when to stop, limiting the drain on the tree's lifeforce, for a dead oak means no more sustenance.
Even though we walked between showers in a nearly empty park, the air was filled with moisture, rising in mists above the river and the creeks. Almost like swimming through the air, sloshing through puddles, and stepping around tiny creeks flowing from accumulations on the prairie back into the nearest ditch, and from thence into the creeks and the river. A constant flow of water from above down, following the line of gravity, like seeking like.
Then I tried to remember the names of all the rivers and creeks we'd crossed during our trips. We always seem to peer out the car windows when we cross one. This time of year every crack and depression in the land is filled (and overfilled) with water. Salmon River, Sandy River, Wildwood Creek, Alder Creek, Willamette River, Champoeg Creek, Mollala River. Those are just the ones I remembered. Many are not even named. Flowing water, ever changing, ever constant, defines the Pacific Northwest. Waterfalls and mists permeate our souls. Angry water, muddy and churning, bright water, clear and chuckling, tired water, slow and chugging. Are we a reflection of this essential element or does it reflect us?