Wind and Rain

First stepping out of the car, I hurry to button up my coat. It's a long drive from home to hear, and to wear my coat the whole way would be oppressive. I like to drive with a slight chill in car, but what waits me outdoors is anything but slight.

A biting wind grabs the edges of my coat and pulls at it, forcing my fingers tighter. One by one, the buttons are secured, and the teeth of the wind is blunted by the fleece of a jacket gifted me by my wife. Though she is not here with me on this day, busy with other things, the warmth of the jacket she gave me, carries her with me.

I pull my toque down tightly over my ears and walk toward the canyon near by. It's a place called Red Rock Canyon, if you're from the area, you probably know it well. If not, I can only hope to describe it with some level of detail.

The area it's found in was hit by a forest fire some years ago, and all around stand the blackened remains of the forest that once was. They sway in the wind, devoid of needles, devoid of life, but not devoid of motion. They surround the canyon and the paths on all sides. Shrubs and grasses form a bed in all directions, save on the trails themselves. Young trees, the offspring of the soaring fire slain husks, poke up all around in this under growth.

This, this is all visible from the parking lot, but one must press on, away from the comfort of their car, away from the road and it's connection to man's world, to begin to see the woods for what they are, and can be.

And so, with the wind softened by my clothing, I press on. Forward to the bridge across the canyon. There are many people here, it's easy to reach, and well worth the time. A river of clear water, running down from unseen sources, melted ice, and the collection of sundry rains, all flow through a canyon carved through layers of red and grey stone. The edges of many of the stones are softened, rounded, dulled with age. They are the evidence of the inevitable march of time, a symbol of how the weathering of life wears down, no matter how strong or firm we may be.

Here and there, sharp edges are still visible, places where rock has snapped away, it's support beneath worn down until they could not longer support the weight above.

I wonder, how many of those jagged signs of sudden change were witnessed by a human, and if they were, what was thought by them? A sudden crack, a clattering of stones, the splash of water, sudden, shocking, and then simply still.

Still, save for the wind, and the water.

As I reach the bridge, the wind picks up again, a fierce, biting gale, roaring in my ears, through the trees, and down the canyon. I feel the force of it, it cuts through my coat with an icy insistence, and carries on it mists of water and rain. I look up at the clouds pushing up over the mountains. The nearest peaks are hidden by the dark swirling mists above. They look heavy with rain. Rivulets of cloud twist and cascade down the mountain sides, swirling around the trees as they fade into the air, returned the ocean of atmosphere.

I hesitate in my chosen plan. A waterfall not far away was my goal, but the wind seems to be challenging me. My coat is warm, but not that warm. A wind of this strength will chill me.

I remember hikes in my scouting days, through winter gripped fields and forests. True, I was better equipped, and younger too, but I managed them. I didn't die. I can do this.

With a stubborn determination, I press on, taking the trail to the falls. A part of me wonders if the wind will die down once I'm in the trees and out of the canyon. That canyon focuses the find like a funnel, hurling it against those playing near it. It carries with it the need to be warm, to go home.

Yet, I am here. I came here because I did not want to stay home, not while fall is fading, and with winter around the corner, and so I continue on the path.

The wind does seem to loose some of its furry as I slip in among the trees. Its curious though, even though they are devoid of their needles, having lost them years ago to the consuming fire, they still manage to break up the wind.

A short distance on the trail, and I see that the wind does not suffer their resistance lightly. A tree, one of the long dead blackened towers of yesterdays growth, lay across the trail. Dirt still clings to it's roots, now sticking up into the air, a hole opened in the earth where they were ripped out. The wind takes it's toll even here.

Gingerly, I step over. It's not a big tree.

I look closely at it as I cross over. The charcoal pattern burnt into its skin has been knocked free by the fall in places, revealing what looks to be fine wood beneath. I wonder at what could be made of it. It is full of cracks, but could still find life, some piece of art or sculpture. A thing of enduring beauty carved from a fallen life. But what work it would be to haul it out of here, and who would you even call about that?

I wonder if another fire would eat up the wood that laid beneath the burnt layer.

Idle thoughts, what ifs. They fill my mind easily, but I am not here to wonder about what ifs, I am here to see something in the now.

A gentle rise and a corner, and I find a couple, stopped on the trail, looking into the woods. I glance where they look. There is a deer and a faun, foraging in the brush. The faun is mostly out of sight among the dead wood, behind another fallen tree. The deer seems less skittish but still cautious. They are not the deer that roam among the towns down here, deer who have little fear of humans, and watch us uncaringly while they eat. No, these deer are careful, wary. These deer live in the mountains, in woods, where other animals wander, and where man is restricted to paths and walks. We are the stranger there.

The couple seems rather excited by the deer. I wonder where they are from, that deer are not so common place for them as they are for me.

I snap a picture as I walk by nonetheless, to share with my wife. A running joke between us, of anytime we see a deer to point it out and say to the other 'Oh deer.' I will continue the tradition, even if she is not with me, yet she stays in my mind.

I carry on.

Ahead, a sign, waring of the possibilities of bears. It's in pieces, a chunk of it sheered away. A tree has fallen on it. In fact, a cluster of trees has fallen around this area. Damaging the sign, and blocking the trail. I stand for a moment planning my way around. I see a possible route through the undergrowth, around the trees and upturned roots.

Maybe they should have had another sign warning us for falling trees.

I turn around and am startled by someone waiting immediately behind me for me to plan my path. I mutter sorry and head off into the bush. He just steps over the trees with a grace and agility that I envy, while saying something pithy about how the sign was taken out by a tree. Despite going in the same direction, and despite probably having to go back to the same starting spot along the trail, I do not recall seeing him again on the path. He is gone with a haste that is impressive over the fallen trees.

The blockage behind me, I continue.

From time to time, the wind picks up. It does not bite me down here on the path, but you can hear the roaring among the trees, and the occasional groan of dead wood twisting in the wind. I stop and look up. The swaying tips of the burnt towering trees, and the swift motion of the clouds gives me a momentary vertigo as I must remind myself that I am stationary, it is simply the things in my view that move.

The sense of motion is hard to suppress though. The trees sway and twist, and clouds tumble along, forced over the mountain tops by the roaring wind. There is something mystical to it all. I cannot help but feel awe. There is something here I desire to capture inside forever, to hold onto, but it is not meant to be. Memory, like the rocks of the canyon, is softened by time. The edges become rounded, the surfaces begin to be covered by moss. One can write and take pictures, but they are only ever dull facsimiles of a thing that is timeless. A snapshot of an eternity. It is never enough.

But still, I watch the trees. I listen to the wind.

There's a shrill note from time to time. Something high and sharp, that cuts through the roar. At first I think it's an animal, but I quickly realize that its intensity is tied to the force and direction of the wind. It carried like a lonesome note of a hidden instrument. A wailing thread carried past you, flowing through the moment.

I smile. I can't help it.

The grey clouds, the biting winds, the roar of the air through the branches, the fallen trees, none of it is what you'd see on a post card, or see in a happy movie scene, but I am happy. I am full with the moment. The now. I know I will not be able to hold it, but for now, I am at peace. Sunny days are fine, but I do like the grey days too.

If you close your eyes, sometimes you can picture yourself near a great waterfall, the roaring wind sounding like rushing waters. Though different things, they seem to rhyme.

After some time, stopping frequently to admire the clouds and their swift motion, or to listen to the wind and the trees, I finally make it to my destination, Blackiston falls.

There are platforms, anchored to the rock and jutting out into a new canyon to give you a good view of the falls from many angels.

I have never been here before. This is my first time laying eyes on this place. It is impressive.

There are more fallen trees, this time made more perilous by the fact that the path is hemmed in, by a sharp drop on one side, and a steep hill on the other. I have no choice but to crawl under the trees. I don't like crawling, but my goal is in sight, just right there, and it would bother me more than crawling does to let this be where I turn back.

I make it to the first platform, and I am once more accosted by the wind. I am no longer shielded by the trees, but have to face it in in full force as it pours into the river valley and canyon with the force of a storm. It carries with it a water vapor, from the falls, and from the heavy clouds, and the outside of my fleece begins to bead with water, but I am dry. I stand at the edge of the platform and look down.

The sight I see is truly awesome, made more so by my isolation. There are people here, still, having faced the same obstacles as I did, but there are less of them than back at the parking lot, and on this platform I am alone.

Alone, save for the wind, and the rain.

As I look down at the falls, the wind hits me with such a force that I actually stagger backward a step. Straightening out again, I grip the edge of the platform to anchor myself. The metal is cold to the touch, and wet with water, but I get my look. I even take some pictures, knowing full well that they will be but a weak echo of the now.

Even despite the wind, or even maybe because of it, this is an exhilarating moment. It's a moment I cherish. The beauty I see, the things I hear, the forces I feel, it all combines into a moment, a magnificent now.

Only... it is not.

I write this after the fact. I write of the past, in a new now.

The new now is in a warm home, with no roaring wind, no chilled rain, no splashing water. There are no blackened trees swaying in the wind, no fallen logs to crawl under or step over or go around.

I reflect on the artist, taking their easel out into the wilderness and trying to capture the moment while in the moment, and even though the work itself can be a thing of transcendent beauty that evokes the feelings and echo's of shared moments, that is what it is, an echo.

But, the echo does maintain a shape of what caused it, and so, when I read this, when I look at the pictures I took, maybe, maybe the echo will remind me of the shape of that moment. Maybe, I will be able to hear the roar, feel the rain, and watch the sway of the trees, in my minds eye.

If nothing else, it'll make me want to go back again.

And if I can't go back again, I'll still remember the shape of the moment.

And that, that's worth something, even if the edges are softer, they are still there.

I am richer for having heard the noise which sounded the echo, even if the echo is all that remains.