The Narrative Image

Water has been falling out of the sky continuously now for …I don’t know…maybe a hundred forty two thousand days (or maybe it just seems like it). Hiking at the base of mountains at this time of year means any significant storm front can drop a foot of snow on you in almost no time at all. The consequent scarcity of intelligent/cautious hikers makes for uncrowded trails - with little hope for rescue. Spiteful winds and rain try to strip the trees of their golden leaves. Failing to denude the deciduous victims, the jealous clouds hang low and hide the brilliant colors in a dull gray blanket. Here and there, autumn’s fire bursts through the gloom. I know Mt. St. Helens is ahead, because I saw it at the end of September (above) when I broke my bicycle on this very same trail. …but today… I walk in eerie limbo, consorting with the souls of unbaptized children and all the rightous who died before the arrival of Jesus (Roman Catholic theology is endle...

Something that cannot be seen clearly, e.g. because it moves too quickly or because it is not distinctly remembered -Encarta Dictionary- Eyes don’t see like cameras do. Sure, there are some similarities, but compared to the conservative monocular mechanical vision of a camera, my eyes do something radically different as they dart around a landscape like hungry chickens pecking the ground in search of premium chicken scratch. Little by little (despite some glaring but hidden blind spots) significant details are added to a simulation of the world that runs in my brain – a simulation something like the simulation you are running, but necessarily unique. I could tell you what I saw - try to describe how, from Lost Lake (during the last days of summer) Mt. Hood looked like a ruined red pyramid …naked … …or I could show you a typical photograph… But what I really want to share is how the moon danced on the water. …and how the wind sighed as the sun went down… …and h...

My brother Fred, Lance the authentic outdoorsman, Eric (expert at interpreting Boston accents), and I stood in the sand at the edge of Netarts Bay. Across the bay, the Netarts peninsula gleamed enticingly through the cool, hazy exhalation of the ocean. We had heard that the peninsula (a spit really) was a promised land of clams and crabs and we all carried shell fish licenses, shovels, rakes and collectively, a crab pot. Standing on the shore, we could feel the ocean in the act of respiration, breathing in and out with great twelve hour breaths. It had been breathing in all morning, filling its great watery lung to capacity, and now at last the ebbing tide slackened, was quiet and still, and began changing direction. We set out into the rising tide having deduced a statistically improved chance of not being swept out to sea by doing so. Well…we almost all set out. The inflatable raft which was meant to carry supplies that wouldn’t ordinarily fit into a kayak turned out to have a ...