A forest of elders... and alders...

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

~ William Shakespeare, As You Like It, 1599
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Early on in my stay at Jawbone I had plenty of time to get into the forest. And I had no fear of getting lost, no fear of injury, no fear of assault by bear or mountain lion or by some wayward thug...

Nope. Here I can wander as I see fit. Lots of folks like hiking the trails, going along the path, getting to the outlooks with vistas. I like the groves, away from the trails, the voices... in that cathedral-like space there is some room between the trees and the duff is thick and cool, soft underfoot.

To wander through the forest at Opal Creek is challenging in that the groves come and go as the landscape's terrain creates seperations via gully and rock outcrop. But even these "obstacles" provide another dimension. The gullies play host to small streams which in these steep sided hills provide ribbons of waterfalls... from 2-3 foot mini-falls to long 50 foot drops where moss and fern attach to the rock and huckleberries grow ripe into the late summer.

I've spent a fair bit of time perusing the notions of heaven and hell and have come to discard them as inconsequential. To me. I make no claims of expertise on philosophy or religion and have no qualm with most of those who believe in the duality of that place we may go upon our deaths, whether we're rotten or blessed individuals.

I do know that of the places I have been a quiet glade within an ancient forest is as idyllic as any I have found. I know Ed Abby loved his desert. As do I. The absolute dimensional overpowering of the desert landscape is awe inspiring. I've seen desert night skies so clear that the Milky Way's 3 dimensionality staggers the mind. And it is perhaps that vastness that makes the confines of forested glade so compelling. If I were to meet god - in the guise of an individual - I would think these places are where he/she/it would want to meet me. The same occurrence in the desert and I'd be asking, "Coyote Old Man... what are you up to? Whats up those trickster sleeves?"

And when I wandered through those woods it was exercise like no other. Stooping, stretching, knee lifts and pulls with arms and shoulders... balancing while crossing a log nearly 200' long as it stretches an abyss. But really? The trees themselves are why I'm there. Why we all go there. The trees are our closest relatives. We cannot avoid familial relationships but the trees are closest because as they exhale, we inhale. And vice versa, as our exhalations become their inhalations. We breathe together, tied together in this sharing of breath.

There was a school for the deaf that visited us often at Jawbone. In the Hewitt grove there are a pair of talking trees. A huge pair of trees that lean together. And I think it was here that I saw Paul shine brightest. We would stop at the "talking trees" and these kids would go and wrap their arms around the base of the tree (they were huge) and the wind blowing high in the canopy would rock those trees and they'd creak, loudly. But the kids couldn't hear that.

But they could feel it... and the delight and joy expressed by these young folks was a reward incomparable to any other. And Paul... if ever there was an instance of his getting misty-eyed... this was it. He knew why he had come to Opal Creek.

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The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.

~ John Muir

Of water and trees...

Whenever, in the course of the daily hunt the red hunter comes upon a scene that is strikingly beautiful or sublime - a black thundercloud with the rainbow's glowing arch about the mountains, a white waterfall in the heart of a green gorge; a vast prairie tinged with the blood-red of sunset - he pauses for an instant in the attitude of worship. He sees no need for setting apart one day in seven as a holy day, since to him all days are God's.

- Charles Eastman (Ohiyesa) (The Soul of the Indian, Houghton Mifflin, Boston & New York, 1911)

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At Opal Creek folks often mention the sound of voices especially down close to the water. Some hear kids laughing, others hear song, some hear music. Always muted, never quite clear enough to catch the words, I know that sound that scratches at the psyche, that makes a person strain to hear more.

Never less alone than when alone...

When I arrived at Jawbone that spring of '90 I embarked on a journey that was a whole greater than the sum of the parts. We worked surrounded by rock and tree and water, all relatively unchanged since the last ice age. The giant trees here, some standing when Columbus stumbled into the isles of the Caribbean and brought death and mayhem to the Arawak, have grown on the bodies of their ancestors, who themselves grew upon the fallen before them, and so on, back thousands of years.

Some people think of an old-growth forest as all ancient trees but a forest is a successsional process. Fire, blowdown from high winds and wind bursts, rock slides... whatever the cause, the forest changes, is born anew and grows ancient again.

We hosted a lot of students, from grade school on up to university level. We relished the kids. Paul and I would put on our best miner voices for the young ones. I mean we looked the part, we were gruff and often a tad scruffy. Put a bit of pirate gravel into the voice and entertain 'em a bit while delivering an educational schtick. One of the most asked questions was a basic one: "what do you mine?"

The answer of course, should be academic. But oh no. The answer was a simple one, tried and true...

"Our own business," Paul would exclaim and the kids would laugh and Paul would laugh... and then we'd go into the truth. The lesson wasn't ever as funny but we had the kids attention. Back then, before formal protection we advocated for people to drink the water right out of the streams. Because you could. Drink the water right out of the steams. Still can, but now they can't "recommend" it. Even though they still drink it...

And that water is pure because of the forest. Filtered thru a canopy of bark, limb, leaf and needle; past moss and lichen and dashed on rocks, aerated and chilled... water that should be recognized for its quality. Among the early supporters of Opal Creek was the city of Salem, Oregon's capitol. The Little North Fork of the Santiam (its headwaters being Opal Creek and Battle Axe Creek) provides Salem with 20% of its drinking water.

Many hikers, familiar with Jawbone's neighbor over the mountain, Breitenbush Hot Springs would ask us if there were any hot springs. And we'd have to tell them that no, we didn't. But we did have lots of cold water. And cold was an understatement. 10 second water is what I called it...

And there were those who would devastate it all for the timber. Opal Creek was not a place well loved by the local communities; Detroit, Idanha, Gates, Lyons, Mill City, Mehama... This was logging country and no ragtag band of enviroh-mentalists was going to stop those chainsaws. Folks like Rob Freres of Freres Lumber swore to log the area. And there were others like Tom Hirons, old friends with George Atiyeh and one of the previous miners that resided in my cabin # 6. Tom was a logger and owned a small logging company and opposed the saving of Opal Creek.

I met Tom and we got along well. His wife ran the video store in Mill City. In talking to George just a couple of weeks ago I learned Tom had recently passed on. Sigh... Like the water, like the trees, we all move on. Some are blessed, some are cursed, some go unnoticed but few have a legacy that includes a gem like Opal Creek. RIP Tom...

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When time comes for us to again rejoin the infinite stream of water flowing to and from the great timeless ocean, our little droplet of soulful water will once again flow with the endless stream.

- William E. Marks The Holy Order Of Water

In the woods...

We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature - trees, flowers, grass - grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls.

- Mother Teresa

When I moved in to my cabin at Jawbone I entered a realm that was to become for me a complete immersion in an intimate setting unlike anything previous in my life. An attachment to this place is inevitable if you spend even part of a day here. When the sound of the river is the lullaby that puts you to sleep and the rock tune that wakes you up in the morning... it becomes the theme song, the rythm that moves you. One thing that every resident of Jawbone accepts is the power of the place to make you welcomed, sheltered, safe...

I very well remember the feeling of "oh boy. A town trip!" And then, after just a couple of hours the novelty of the city is worn and tired. The place is crowded. Crowded with people and sounds and smells and activity... and it is time to go home. Time to get back to the safety inside that locked gate.

As close to a perfect sense of freedom as I've ever enjoyed was at Jawbone. The nature of self sufficiency is a draw that many people ignore or are not even cognizant of. And it is absolutely understandable to rely on the services of modern living. ... heh... I mean... I do it all the time. But Opal Creek... where the water that is your power is also your coffee, your hot shower and it is the best water in the world. Cold. Filtered through a forest, through moss and root and rock. Water as fresh as most of the world's fresh water was before our mad migration through the realm of technology and the planet's human population explosion. I read once that when the final battles of the middle east are fought they won't be fighting over oil. The war will be for water. We can live without oil. We dry up and blow away without water...

Water flows humbly to the lowest level.
Nothing is weaker than water,
Yet for overcoming what is hard and strong,
Nothing surpasses it.

- Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching