Moon Walk

Last night was the full Harvest Moon and the clouds broke in the late afternoon, so that we could hold our annual Moon Watch. Usually we make dinner and drive to Chip Ross Park, where we eat, watch people and their dogs come and go, and wait for the moonrise. Last night, we decided to walk. I packed cheese rolls, salad, corn on the cob, and chocolate into our day packs, grabbed an extra layer or two from the drawers, and we headed uphill.

                It was a lovely warm evening. The light was golden as the sun set; the air was still and quiet; the ground smelled of dampness from a recent rain. We walked from our densely populated neighborhood through Ranchland, and then into the undeveloped area on the hills, finally cresting into the park. The world dropped away and we arrived at the picnic table a little after seven.  Dog Walk time. The world grew dimmer. People came out of the park and pulled away. The church let out around eight and all of the cars left, taillights bright in the darkness. We were alone, standing on the gravel mound, waiting for the moon, which was, as always, later than expected and NOT where we were watching. When it finally appeared, it was bands of deep orange light, blocked by the ridges of clouds backed up against the Cascades. As it rose, it rapidly shifted in color to yellow, then cream emerging about the distant clouds.  We cheered,  picked up our backpacks, and started down the trail.

                Gravel crunched underfoot. Crickets and birds called back and forth as we walked the broad trail into the park. Up and down the hills, watching for the high point where the trail back to town drops off the side of the slope. There—right after the dark space of trees, two posts. Down. We leave the gravel behind, walk down the dirt, worn by both feet and mountain bikes. A bit of a gully.  On the south side, the moon, huge and creamy, peeks between the huge twisted branches of the oaks and then disappears again. Stars wink above. Below, we can see the lights of town, moving from curving roads of the hillsides to the straight runways of the older gridded streets. The slight breeze has died. The air is warm and still. Down, down, down, we drop, feeling our way. I can barely see Mark in front of me; he does not always notice when I stop to watch the moon. The slope opens up, moonwashed, into a meadow and the trail ahead is clear. We swing to the right, towards a wash of willows, blackberry, and fir, knowing that the trailhead is not far away. As we move through the wash, we can barely see. Mark pokes ahead with his walking stick; I follow my memory. In the brush, a deer jumps up and runs away, startled by our presence. Mark jumps. “It’s a deer,” I say, “not the cougar.”  One more small meadow, then civilization.

                Even when we move onto sidewalk, the evening is still and silent. It could be one AM by the traffic. No one else is out on this beautiful evening; we have the sidewalks to ourselves.  Moon and street lights create our shadows, dappled in leaves, moving quietly downhill.