The lighthouse at Carmanah Point blinks reassuringly yet tauntingly. Waves roll in, their crests blowing behind like white comet tails. A mist hangs in the valley up the river behind camp. Cedars, ferns and soft sweet brown mud scent me, us.

I�m alone in my tent. I�ve started having nightmares of slipping off the slick roots and logs onto the �trail� which is actually more of a stream � freestanding water, sometimes flowing, over a thick bed of mud. The impact of landing in the mud wakes me with a jerk several times each night.

I prairie-dog out of the tent when there is a break in the rain. The sun is setting: bright beneath the thick layer of grey cloud on the horizon. I comb my damp hair in that dense cold Pacific wind, wishing to be in the warmth of the lighthouse keeper�s home. My hair is soft with oils and salt; the tangles loosen, some hair even dries a little, before the rain falls once again.

On the cable cars I watch the silver ring that Timathy gave me. I make sure I don�t lose it, because it is my hope. I�m screaming inside to make it out of this hell� but I can�t let those cries fall; I can�t fall apart. I bring strength to us.

I am strong, but I�m so scared of this night, the rain and wind, and alone.

Eagles. Each time an eagle wheels over a headland, soars over our hunched pack-laden backs, I know that he�s thinking of me. I imagine that I am a seagull � my body turned smooth white and feathery light � and I glide through the forest with ease.

With ease, I glide through the trees.