I'm at Kalaloch Campground in Olympic National Park, going through my routine early in the morning. The Pacific is the view. Hidden are masses of enormous tree trunks, washed down the rivers and thrown by waves and tide against the back of the beach; a giant jungle gym to climb through like a mouse to reach the water, which is demandingly cold.
I've been circling from Seattle through Puget Sound, to Victoria, the Northern Cascades, Mount Rainier, the Yakima Valley, the Columbia River Gorge, Portland, the Oregon Coast, and back to the Washington Coast. Feels like a domed detour from my regular life's narrative. From suspended above I look down on it, even though I know I'm just living my life. Like the summer snow-capped mountains that suddenly appear here, up above the clouds - on first sight more believable as entities that are "coming down" than "rising up."
I thought that a year was fifty-four weeks so I missed my one year mark for these Weekly Rites. But between here and there it's a good time to celebrate - I tip my flask to the mountains, the sea, my quest, my home.
