Picture, If You Will

We spent three nights camping on the banks of the Metolius River. Picture, if you will, a raging river, all white water and roaring, crashing over rocks and ripping over rapids.

The Metolius looks nothing like that.

The Metolius, at least our little section of it, is a lazy little stream, wide and shallow, and toe numbing cold. Instead of rocks and rapids, its filled with marshy islands and flowers that have managed to root themselves in driftwood logs. The Lewis River, at our last camping spot, roars and rages; the Metolius whispers.

One of the attractions of the spot is that it’s about a quarter of a mile from the headwaters of the river. The Metolius is not a spring fed river – it just pops right out of the ground. We tried to walk along the shore to the headwaters, but we encountered private property that was so private the owner built a fence across the river. Wrig was pretty upset that someone could own the forest. We tried to explain that we own property, too, and we wouldn’t be terribly happy about someone coming into our backyard to sleep or eat our veggies, but I’m not sure she was convinced.

So we had to drive the quarter mile to the headwaters.

Picture, if you will, high desert Oregon, east of the Cascades. Sagebrush and boulders. Dust. Neither tree nor shrub nor critter for miles around. Perhaps, for those of you who know it, something a little like Jamison Square. And out of this rock springs a spring. Behold! The Head of the Metolius River.

Well, the Head of the Metolius River looks nothing like that.

I’m not quite sure how to capture the headwaters. Verdant comes to mind. An explosion of bright green in the midst of a patchwork of sage and beige. But explosion is such a violent word and this was such a peaceful place. The air was moist and cool. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the whisper of butterfly wings. As we sat and listened to the silence, I could feel the hillside giving life to the river, and the river bringing life to the hillside.

The Head of the Metolius was nothing like I imagined it would be; instead, it was much, much better.

Three More Bag Nights

Here comes this first in a series of posts about our recent camping trip on the Metolius River. I'm at a conference in Bend as I type, and my internet access is spotty, but I'll do my best to get some info up.

Sing a Song of Pit Toilets

On our last camping trip, Wrigley developed an (ir)rational fear of pit toilets. At first, she displayed disdain. And yes, she’s right, they smell bad. Then distaste. And, yes again, she’s right, they’re gross. Finally, her fear blossomed into outright dismay. Under intense third degree interrogation, she revealed the fact that she’s worried that she will fall into the pit. And, yes again, if you’ve ever made the mistake of accidentally looking into the pit toilet, that would be a disgusting thing to have happen to you.

One of my biggest struggles as a professional Dad is dealing with irrational fears. Part of me understands and acknowledges that Wrig’s fears are real and valid. She has a tiny bottom and the hole in the seat seems awfully big. I, for one, can’t imagine anything much worse that tumbling head over heels into a deep dark pit of … well, you get the point. I understand why she feels the way she does, it’s just an incredible hassle dealing with her emotions. A very large part of me wants to scream “Get over it!” A much smaller, more reasonable, and persistent part of me wants to help her overcome of fear. That rational part of me has learned that I can’t make Wrigley learn anything until she’s ready.

Her pit toilet anxiety cast a pall over our first day of camping. On Tuesday night, Christie and I were talking about canceling our next trip. Neither of us could fathom dealing with Wrig’s apprehension (and the accompanying whining) for another two days.

So.

Christie came up with the brilliant idea of using song to distract the child from the terror of the pit toilets. For two days straight, we have been singing a variety of songs with the same theme: I hate pit toilets.

All of this has been a very lengthy preamble with which I would like to introduce my favorite four lines of song from the camping trip. Feel free to invent your own melody. My melody changes every time I try to sing it.

Pit toilets … are the pits.
There’s no clean place to sit!
I’m at the end of my wits
with Pit. Toi. Lits!

(And if that was the best, can you imagine the worst?)

Poem of the Week

For the first time this year, I have gone seven consecutive days without composing a single poem. Phooey. Better luck next week.

RIP, Glinty the Fish, April 2008 - July 6, 2008

Glinty was a silver hued goldfish. He lived alone in a bowl that used to hold Marble's cat food. He loved Wrigley and would always swim to the top of the water whenever you fed him or even just lifted the cat-protective cloth from the top of his bowl. Glinty had no spouse or children, and is survived by one horrifically grief-stricken six year-old.

How Was Your Weekend?

Our recent camping trip, by the numbers:

Days out -
Ed: 5
C & W: 4

Rivers: 4
The Clackamas, the Lewis River, the Wind River, Paradise Creek

Waterfalls: 5
Upper Lewis, Middle Lewis, and (you guessed it!) Lower Lewis, Falls Creeks Falls, and an anonymous fall in the middle of Falls Creek


Skeeter Bites -
Ed: 37
C & W: 2 each
Ratio of Sweetness of Ed to C or W - 18.5:1
Ratio of Sweetness of Ed to C and W - 9.25:1
Number of pages in New Yorker article about itching that Ed read: 7
Number of times Ed scratched while reading: 19

Thunderstorms: 1
Thunderstorms with rain worth mentioning: 0
Lightning flashes: 3

Visits to creepy country store straight from the set of Deliverance to buy ice: 2
Banjo players at above mentioned store: 0

Days until our next camping trip: too many!

The June Review

Number of days: 30
Poems Written: 12
Poems Posted: 4
Poems I like: 5

The Year So Far (as of June 30):
Days: 182
Poems: 107
Poems I like: 65.5

I'm sick to death of my brain right now. I wonder if the number of "Poems I Like" will go up or down at the end of the year when I reread them all.

Poem of the Week

Five days late, no less!

William Stafford’s Carcass
June 28, 2008

William Stafford’s carcass lies in a grave of fern,
just ten feet off the Lewis River Trail,
its hindquarters crushed, hipbones missing,
but the ribcage rises full and round
as a pregnant moon. Six strong neckbones
twisted in a savage angle lead to
a broken skull, a speechless jaw.
Months ago, this spot stank of
indecision and regret, but now
the carrion are well fed, the bugs busied,
and the hide slowly returns to earth.

I wish Stafford were here with me
to see that there are no wrong turns,
no accidents, and eventually all roads
lead to this quiet rest in the hills.
I’d wake him and let him know, but
I’m sure he’s already figured it out for himself.

Poem of the Week

On time, no less!

Stasis
June 22, 2008

In the woods of Ancient Greece,
any person foolish enough to
sit beside a stream waiting for a poem
to drift by on the lazy current
would surely be turned into some
nimble, exotic plant, perfumed with
fruit, poisonous to the touch.

Those Greeks, poets included,
demanded men of action,
adventure, courage and wit.
Odysseus did not wait for Ithaka
to sail to him, after all, and no
glory came to Achilles for watching
Patroklus wage war in borrowed armor.
Those heroes feast to this day
in the long grasses of the Elysian Fields
honored for deeds of doing, not waiting.

But as I sit here, nibbling my pencil
to a nub, the taste of cedar on my tongue,
I think that neither the gloom of Hades
nor the flowers of the Elysian Fields
can match the reward of an eternity
spent on the banks of a sleepy river,
enchanting, fragrant, and deadly.