SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Monday, May. 23, 2005 @ 7:27 pm
West Coast Trail





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.

Im alone in my tent. Ive 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 keepers 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 dont lose it, because it is my hope. Im screaming inside to make it out of this hell but I cant let those cries fall; I cant fall apart. I bring strength to us.

I am strong, but Im 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 hes 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.



Roots | Shoots