February 16th, 2018
Lush. Lush and intensely green. That was how the world looked to me yesterday as I walked through Gazzam Lake Park on the west side of Bainbridge Island. The park has a trail that snakes through the forest toward the sea. Towering Douglas firs and majestic cedars surround the path, blocking the view of a typically overcast sky. Ferns grow among leaves that have fallen from the naked branches of the birch trees. Lichen and fluorescent green moss cling to the trunks and branches of the trees. It is not spring yet, but the low bushes have small buds. Ivy creeps on the earth. I saw a lone holly, with its shiny, serrated leaves. Everything was wet yesterday morning. The woods were cool and damp.
I hiked along the trail. It descended gently until it came close to the water’s edge. Then the path dropped steeply. It followed a zigzag pattern down a steep bluff. The walkway was narrow and winding, without pavement or handrails.
I saw a fallen cedar. It had broken off near the bottom of the trunk. The splintered wood showed a bright rust red in sharp in contrast to the predominant green of the forest. It was if the tree had bled all over the ground as it fell and died.
I came to the shore of the strait that separates the island from the Olympic Peninsula. Waves lapped on round stones. I dipped my hand into the water and put my fingers in my mouth to taste the salt. Low grey clouds skidded across the sky. The wind blew from the south and sighed in the woods above me.
I sat down on a granite boulder. I did nothing. I was just there.