Once it started to mellow I’d sit in the late afternoon sun in a far part of the yard with the dog and some honey bees lazing about the lawn. I’d stopped cutting it so the clover flowered over and the bees seemed to like that. Running my tractor was like an obstacle course now with all the inverted clay pots and flags marking the scissor traps I’d laid for the moles. I’d worked my fingers raw digging the holes out searching for the tunnels, fingering the loamy soil. I’m sure I didn’t lay the traps right but we’ll see. It was the opposite of waiting for something to flower or bare fruit. I was waiting for the guillotine to drop.

The berm ran alongside our gravel road and was now filled in with all the plants and shrubs we’d planted these past couple years. Waning foxgloves leaned forward like they were trying to fit into the frame. The weigela shrubs were lime-green yellow and the beauty berry bush would soon be plump with purple clusters come autumn. It cooled down well and took all day for the house to get warm again. And by then it was cooling off for the night.

In the morning I put on my flannel, let the dog out, and checked the traps. It was just the crows and some small birds peeping. The lawn chairs were moist with dew and I did something I never have: I sat there with my coffee on the edge of the yard—normally I hurry off to the park.

We’d had our windows cleaned for the first time ever, having installed new ones during the pandemic. And I had the gutters done too: they can clean the outside of the gutters to get the plaque off, akin to a teeth-whitening treatment, that’s how good it looks. But they lied when I asked about the chemicals they used and could they harm our plants? They always lie when you ask questions like that. Now some of the plants and flowers have odd brown spots. But the gutters look great! I asked if they could come back for the mold on the chimneys.

I feel myself getting pulled back to the park, I told Lily. She asked if I would just wait a while until it felt safe, with the cougar sightings. I just wanted more information. I guess it would never be the same now. Walking through our neighborhood was good but I missed the trees and forest.

I’d read they found charcoal in the area where the park is from thousands of years ago. The park website said, people have lived in the area surrounding Soaring Eagle Park as far back as 12,500 years ago. Prior to contact with white settlers, the area was occupied by the lower Snoqualmie peoples who lived along the Snoqualmie river, relying on its wetlands, creeks and streams. Evidence has shown there once was a significant travel corridor through Soaring Eagle Park. Traditional travel corridors would have been burned to maintain them and to encourage game animals to frequent the area, which is consistent with charcoal being found in the park.

Maybe I really was tapping into some primal force there from thousands of years ago. Or maybe I was just habitual.

I made plans to board Ginger again and drive down to Mt. Rainier early Friday, to see about a walk-up permit in the same fashion I had last week, to wait outside the ranger station and see where they’d let me go. I also sent a follow up email to the hiring manager for the job I was offered that was now in limbo. Seems I oscillate between work and the wilderness and can’t settle without either one, or both.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Diary, Memoir

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, pacific northwest