Mary's Peak

Last week, we climbed Mary’s Peak, our local mountain—Connor’s Camp to the rock garden, then down via the Tie trail, if you want to know the route. We do it every summer, about this time, usually clutching a botany book or two. This year, we left the books behind, so we are only greeting old friends along the way: the phantom orchid right before the trail really begins, the senicio triagularis on the corner of a turn, the monkey flowers in the seep that tumble down through the woods so that you pass their relatives several times along the route. We paced ourselves up the hill, admiring the huge gallery forest of trees and the glimpses of the valley below. There were no other people on the trail; it was so quiet.

There is an old rotting Douglas Fir beside the path. It fell in a storm and the Forest Service cut it so that it no longer blocked the trail. You can see inside, watch the wood slowly decay, leaving only the roots of the branches behind, because that wood is the strongest of all. Looking in, it is a dragon’s maw of teeth, circling down the trunk, lit from the other end. Riverteeth, David James Duncan called them—what is left of your memory when all of the details are gone, the emotional core of the experience.  What are our Riverteeth? What is left behind, as we grow old?

As I climb the mountain, Mark falls behind to examine a flower. He is, always, a stop and start hiker, his eye and mind pulled to and fro by the natural world. How does that bent branch happen? Is that the same penstemon as the one I just passed?  Why is the rock changing here?  I am a steady state hiker, letting my mind wander, but my feet keep going. My stride matches the rhythm of my mind and heart. I remember the riverteeth forming below, the roots upthrust from a tree blown down, and consider my own roots… and how the pandemic reveals our emotional roots and our core selves.

Steady up, nodding to the familiar flowers, roots, and rocks that mark our trail. Steady. We emerge into sunlight, bright blue sky, fields and open space, skirt the meadow, and join the old road to the top, passing the rock garden’s deep red Indian Paintbrush, Blue Gilia, and Oregon Sunshine, the late blooms, as we circle upwards. At the top, we pause, eat our lunch, and name the mountains. Is that Hood? Ranier?! Yes. A line of cloud marks the ocean. We are rooted. Perhaps this trail has become a Rivertooth, ingrained in our spirits, a yearly ritual of return.