The “waves” of rain storms gave way to sunshine, yesterday afternoon. The creeks are running full from the inches of rain, and every draw, drainage and underground waterway is contributing to the overall tumult heading to the Willamette and Columbia Rivers. I took advantage of this respite to head to the Woods, to join in and commune with the changes such rain inevitably brings to the forest. The old forest roads bear the wash of water draining over them, and I couldn’t help but play in the feed, using my toe to open and cut channels off to the sides of the road in order to more quickly drain the water off, rather than down the course. This, I’m sure, is a throwback to the days of springtime, in Upstate New York, where I would practice similar techniques in channeling the runoff from the melting winter snow, along the walks and street sides, playing in the melting snow, on my walk home from St. Joseph’s Elementary School.
So I continued on down the paths I was directed to, noting the drops of water occasionally landing on my forehead and down through my hair to my scalp, as the upcoming breezes began swaying them from the canopy of evergreen and deciduous tree branches overhead. It was quiet, with but an occasional jet momentarily chasing away this feeling of being away from the urban neighborhood. Then back again to a feeling of solitude and this feeling of being directed to somewhere in particular. Along the way, I couldn’t help but notice, once again, how green the tree moss appears immediately after a rain.
A change in course took me off of the old abandoned roadway and onto a footpath I know will bring me through a favorite area of larger Douglass Fir, with a careful blend of Cedar and Hemlock, broken up by the occasional swath of Bigleaf Maple (mostly along the draws). I could hear the sound of running water from way down the hill, knowing the usually trickling creek was probably fairly swollen, at this time. Around several bends I walked, and through a few switchbacks that crossed these very draws which were avidly contributing to the medley of water roiling along the bottom of the main draw heading directly toward the river, less than a mere mile away.
And then, I was drawn to go “off road”, so to speak, and carefully head down the hill toward the creek below. A relatively steep hill, I seemed to be drawn to the easiest areas to descend and onto a hidden long time ago skid trail, from the days when this area was last logged. I know this entire area to be laced with these trails, which on occasion make for easier travel off the beaten path through the Woods. Other times I find them to be so overgrown with blackberry, or shrouded in shrub Maple or just plain jumbled up with fallen logs and branches, the normal way for the forest to recover when man has last machined his way through, that is actually easier to wade through the ferns. Regardless of which way I travel, I find it most important to respect the sanctity of these Woods and respect the residents by not thrashing, cracking and crunching my way through (at least, any more than can be absolutely helped).
So, down I traversed, sometimes following a skid trail, other times traveling on or alongside long time fallen and decaying logs, being careful always of my footing in order that I not slide pell mell down the rain soaked, leaf covered, stick laced hillside, nor drop my foot through a cavity formed by rotting wood, or decaying leaves drifted along side of one of these great “ancient” tree bodies. Down I traveled until coming into a somewhat level spot, still a good 50′ uphill of the creek that I had been feeling drawn to explore. At this point, the voice of reason stepped in to bring to my attention that the last part of this downhill expedition was going to be even steeper yet, more laden with obstacles, and the fact that of what I could see of the creek indicating that it may not be all that spectacular or enthralling and with almost nowhere to stand alongside. Along with this voice I came to realize that I no longer felt an invitation to travel further, suggesting that I had arrived at where it was that I was meant to visit in the first place.
This didn’t appear as a particularly special part of the Woods, not having any grand trees, views or other special effects. I stood there for a minute or more, taking in the sound of the water below, the birds here and there and witnessing the breezes swaying the tree tops. I smelled the woods, felt the drops on my head, and felt the presence standing behind and to the left of me. I then turned and realized on the spot, why I was summoned here.
To veneratedly acknowledge the Old Man of yore. He stood in silence, grace and I felt blessed to be in his presence. This Old Man I know seems like just an old stump to most. Yet, to me, I could see the magnificence of what was once a grand old Douglass Fir, a patriarch. I could feel the benevolence and the blessing that I was invited to come stand with him, to view this place, this serenity, in the way that he continues to view it, though he no longer a Tree be. 
They say that the spirit leaves a Tree, once it is cut down. Indeed that is true. Yet, here was a spirit that merely withdrew into the stump, retaining all of his honor, continuing on in the spirit of the Woods. I stood with him, for awhile, facing in the direction it seemed as he, for this time experiencing the Woods through his own spirit and feeling blessed in the honor.
If for one minute in time, I could share with you what I then felt, it would change your life forever.
Peter J Quandt