Call this creek Melodius, our name for a stream that skips like a light-footed child. Melodius sings into the Metolius, and that’s all I’ll say. Some places have to be kept secret. I’d come here with Wes and our dog Pepper to set up camp away from people. For two days, I alternated writing at the camp table with nearby strolls in a sensory inventory, inspired by the finely tuned nature author David Haskell.
In the cool of morning, I brush through ferns, ocean spray, and wild rose, and climb over fallen trees blackened by wildfire. The creek is a syncopated ripple over stones. Sunlight slants into the fine-webbed globe of a salsify seedhead, the size of a baseball. Up close, I note stems radiating from the center to form saucer-shaped, filamentous seeds that are feather light, an offering to the winds. Take me. Sail me to my planting place.
The scent of seven a.m. is smoky charcoal of old fire and a faint hint of humus and fir incense. Two hours later, the sun heats the kiln of forest aromas– a mingle of resinous firs, vanilla wafting from elder ponderosas, of cedar, spicy larch needles, and all laced in a sweetness of blooms. Looking skyward, I’m spiring up like a larch snag spearing the azure sky.
Crinkle the frilled edge of a bracken fern. Inhale the cut-grass hay and celery scent. Whirl back in time. I’m nine-years-old, and scrambling through bracken thickets to find the blackberry bushes, where my brothers and I will pick the juicy, sweet purple berries and stain our fingers, tongues, and chins. We’re close by our home, outside Mt. Rainier National Park, and the day is hot and the ferns press a memory keepsake.
Touch the nubile Douglas fir needles, the prickle tips of Oregon grape, the leathery seaweed-shaped cedar fronds, and the knitting needle-sharp quills of ponderosa. A velvety, jagged-edged alder leaf chewed by insects captures the sun. Can texture, too, take us home to a distant memory? Yes, I think, drifting back to my twenties when I stumbled upon a spongy, glowing emerald moss bed on top of a flat and immense boulder near the Selway River.
Away from the creek, my sandaled feet crunch in last year’s needles. Within 20 feet of the streambank, all is moist and watered below ground. Immersed in this riparian ribbon, I’ve flown back not just to childhood, but to the time of dinosaurs, of tropical, exuberant, flamboyantly lush and giant plant life. I’m even finding equisetum, or horsetail, the living fossil plant that grew in the Mesozoic, and the first to recolonize Mt. St. Helens after the eruption.
Wading into Melodious, I gasp at the frigid tug of knee-deep waters, and stand still until my feet are numb. Only then can I continue upstream beneath the malachite, lime, and shadowed greenery that arches over the creek. At last, I become the song. Know the heartbeat of headwater springs. Catch the refrain of tenor and soprano. The chorus? A slice of pure wind. Birds chime in with hummingbird clickity-clicks, Cassin’s Vireo grace notes, and Song Sparrow riffs of joy.
Clambering out to stable ground, I raise my arms. Stand on one leg. Tree pose. Wonder at who I am within this place. Like the salsify seedhead, my presence is ephemeral, and yet I hold feathery seeds of promise on each fingertip. While I live, I hope to plant them in ways that nourish like Melodious Creek.
How wonderful to get to be there with you on the Melodious, all senses engaged through your words and photos! Thank you.
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And you, for all the sensory times we find out among birds.
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This is some mighty fine writing, Marina. You took me right there to Melodious Creek with all the details that engaged every sense , even without your fabulous photos.
I’m listening to Mink River by Brian Doyle, and you wrote lines that took me back to a chapter I heard this morning: “At last, I become the song. Know the heartbeat of headwater springs. Catch the refrain of tenor and soprano. The chorus?”
Thanks for this glorious piece. It’s pure poetry. xoA
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Oh that is such a compliment from a mighty fine poet. And Brian Doyle–what a gift to the world he was. I will have to revisit Mink River, too.
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Lovely Marina…your descriptions make me feel as if I’m with you on your sojourn.
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I think I heard that your mother passed away? I’m so sorry. She seemed like a gem from your writings. My own mother has aged terribly cooped up in her retirement home. We saw her for the first time last week, her first time out of her room and into the sun. I feel bad for not noticing on the phone her decline. Thanks for your writings – your way of putting your heart into words is amazing.
Cilla
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Thank you for taking us all with you on this sensory experience, breath giving & I love “riparian ribbons!”
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Beautiful! Thank you for sharing.
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As I savor my Scarlet Tanager coffee this morning I am grateful that you have planted so much from your fingertips that make this world a little better place. Your finger tips have inspired mine to share amazing places and creatures with others and encourage them to experience, cherish and conserve what they have been blessed with where they live and wander.
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Thank you Ken –you are such a supporter, and an inspiration for me as well–your photography, volunteerism, and commitment to saving this planet for future generations. And yes–I do love to see the results of our native plantings–like the native columbines by the window now almost six feet tall –and natural hummingbird feeders!
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Your welcome and gracious. Your fingertips plant life, words and inspiration.
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Beautiful! Your detailed descriptions made me feel like I was there!
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