I'm sitting in midstream astride a fallen tree. There are several of these trees, toppled by who knows what Act of God, natural bridges from one side of the forest to the other.

This tree is thick. I straddle it as if I'm riding a horse. My notebook is 14cm long; I mark the diameter of the trunk as six notebooks, which is 84cm, which is about 33 inches (give or take). It's wide enough and flat enough and dry enough that I feel safe walking across it despite my healing knee and despite my fear of heights.

Eight feet below me, the incessant sibilance of the stream cascades through mossy stones. On the opposite shore is an odd stone, maybe six inches thick, oblong, but perfectly flat on two sides. Moss grows on it, too. Moss grows on everything here.

The trunk upon which I sit is damp. It rained earlier.

"When's the rain supposed to stop?" Mac asked the camp host when we arrived.

"It was never supposed to start," she said.

The wetness of the bark and the moss has soaked through the denim of my Levis. I'm wet. Isn't it a sign of coming misery if your clothes are wet at the start of a camping trip?

I'm not miserable yet.

I'm elated.

This spot is beautiful. We're about 25 miles east of Estacada, near Lake Harriet, on a stream called Brokenshell Creek. I've not been alone in the forest for a long time. I love it. Mac is back at the campsite making photographs (the last remnants of daylight cause the wet leaves to glow an ethereal green). We're in contact by walkie-talkie, but, except, for the mosquitoes, I am alone.

When I'm alone in the woods I feel a sort of energy coursing through my being, some sort of verdant force that quickens my mind and lightens my feet. I feel alive. I feel kinship with the rocks and trees and ferns and streams. I want to run wild, barefoot through the forest. When I am alone in the woods, I can almost believe in a God. Not your God maybe, nor your brother's God, but some sort of God nonetheless.

My shirt is so wet and my body so warm that I am steaming: steam has begun to waft from my body as some of the water evaporates. It's as if I'm on fire, warmed by the aforementioned verdant force.

Upstream I can see a huge boulder. It juts from the shore, disrupting the straight path of the stream. The stone wears a jacket of pale green-yellow moss, a different moss from that which coats everything else here. I want to sit on that stone. Do I have time to reach it tonight?

Probably not.

We're in the gloaming; the light has begun to fade. I should head back to camp.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005 — Army of Coons   I was lounging in the tub this morning, soaking in the glorious hot water, when Kris — standing at the bathroom window — whispered, "There are two raccoons outside. Come see."

2004 — Alaskan Voyage: Portland to Vancouver   For the past two weeks, Kris and I have spent time in Canada and Alaska, thinking only briefly of the cats, of the house, and of you.

2002 — Warcraft III Thoughts   Though Warcraft III and Starcraft seem to share similar features, it seems that the strategies for the two games are vastly different. I'm pretty competent at Starcraft. I suck at Warcraft III.