The Disillusionists cont'd...

After I had opened my eyes to see Alexis and Jay mixing up some instant oatmeal while standing over top of me, I squirmed out of my sleeping bag and headed out the door to take a leak. They looked at me like I was some kind of free entertainment. Outside May and Mike were having coffee at the chairs. A few moments later I joined them with my own cup and a bowl of steaming oatmeal, which by the way I had to fix for myself.

Jay had found a trail that led from the spot where we were parked. It now looked like we were in a small quarry that was used to supply material for road construction years ago. Alexis thought for certain that this was the right place when the trail opened up just as she remembered. The campsite itself seemed to be a fairly popular spot as the trail itself was not particularly overgrown. There were freshly cut branches and a little bit of garbage floating around. No bear shit luckily.

It was a long way down to the ocean. From the top of the trail we could see fog rising from below but no water - the trees obscured any sight line. Once on the trail we became isolated from the sky. The earth was soft, almost mud, it squeezed under our feet even this far into the dry season. In patches the forest opened up and areas of Red Cedar and Spruce lay in a thick carpet of loam. Most of the slope stood with Hemlock and Fir although on occasion, where the ground was disturbed, a cluster of Alder or a lonely Big Leaf Maple claimed some light. On the dry rocky slopes above you could see the twisted limbs of the Arbutus.

A raven's wing has an unmistakable sound. In a clearing we looked up as the bird flew low. It pushed through the air and landed with grace on an old spur. I imagined it was attracted to the ultra violet sheen of May's hair... The huge bird surveyed us and threw it's voice - a sound like a single amplified raindrop.

We were walking on a trail that had, in one form or another, existed for hundreds of years. In ancient times, it had led to banks of mussels and accessed stream beds and spawning grounds. Today it linked up to a logging road and a motorhome. Now among the less than one thousand modern peoples who had traversed it, it never occurred to any of us to consider how lucky we were. Stand just ten feet off of the trail and you are on a spot that no human has ever stood before.

At the bottom of the hill the trail dropped onto the rocks at the shore. The sound, smell, taste and vibration of the waves met us as soon as we broke through the crooked, wind-formed trees. At the edge of a small cliff explosions of spray rose up before us and I turned to Mike and said, "I'm not fuckin' going in there!"