In wildness I trust

The creek in winter.

The creek in winter.

WE SPENT SATURDAY in the woods at a little cabin beside a creek. It's an easy drive from Portland but the highway carries you into another realm. Tall, old-growth Douglas firs surround the cabin, and a wilderness area is within easy reach. No internet signal intrudes. There is water, but no electricity.

Ray sat on the porch and watched his granddaughter practice her carving skills while the creek burbled through low rapids a few feet away. I went for a walk. It felt good to be back among the trees and I walked slowly, enjoying the feeling that wooded areas always inspire in me, that of being among friends. I stopped often to look up, sometimes resting my hand on a tree so I wouldn't fall over as I leaned back to see the tops of the firs so far above me, their branches swaying in the breeze against a pale blue sky.

The dirt road was more like a trail than a road, quite narrow in places, and strewn with pine needles and crushed cones. The understory was thick with ferns, a few white daisies and tiny pink flowers that I couldn't identify; some Oregon grape, a blackberry bush. But the ferns ruled.

About thirty minutes in I crossed a barrier into the wilderness area, and stopped at the sign-in box that marks all such boundaries. Parties of up to 12 are permitted, I read, but those 12 include livestock—horses presumably, or maybe llamas—and it made me smile to see this conflating of humans and livestock. A rare thing in our human-centric world.

I didn't sign in; I was only going a short distance, to the creek that I could easily hear and was tempted to cross. But jumping from wet rock to wet rock didn't seem prudent out here in the lonesome so I took a longing look at the narrow path through the trees beyond and turned back.

At the cabin our hosts were headed to the swimming hole to see who could stay in the icy water the longest. I eased myself into a hammock, strung between two trees at the edge of the creek. Gazing upward I saw nothing but pale green leaves lit by sunlight, of vine maple and alder, and higher, a different kind of maple. Beyond that were glimpses of blue and the tip of a fir tree.

As I lay there I thought about all those—especially children—who live without ever experiencing a day in the woods, a dip in a cold creek, or even a walk along a pine-cone strewn road. This thought saddened me, because such moments are magical and touched with spirit, intangible but crucial. Without spirit we are simply egocentric beings marching to the drumbeat of culture and society. With it, we are the world and everything in it, even the universe itself.

There are those who would steal nature from us, to kill and drill and log and mine for money. They cannot take all of it, but they may try, and we must fight. Our day on the creek was a welcome break from city life. But the best part was knowing there are more forests and lakes and rivers and oceans—and all the life contained within them—just over the horizon. And all are waiting for us until needed again. May it always be so.