By the evening of my Monday breakdown, Robin was duly concerned. I’d rarely shown such lack of control over my emotions, usually shaking them off with some semi-productive distraction such as cleaning or running or … writing, which I had quit.
So the next morning he surprised me with a kindhearted attempt to make me feel better. He booked two nights camping.
Kachess Lake is a natural lake also used as a reservoir, 70 minutes east of Seattle in the Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest. The four of us had previously visited Kachess Campground to survey the layout for a possible future stay, preferably near the lake shore for prime waterfront views. We were the only ones there that day, wondering if the campground simply hadn’t opened for the season, when a ranger yelled at us, “Don’t you hear the chainsaws?!”
Oops. Yes, we’d heard them, but none of us had made the connection to falling trees. Apologies were made as we scuttled to our car.
This time, anticipating two warm mid-September days at our site nearest the lake, Robin packed our paddle-boards and a borrowed fishing pole. I packed my swimsuit. I was going swimming! Which I never do!
As you can see by the photos, we did not go paddle-boarding or fishing or swimming. The water level was so low we could only hike the lake’s bed and marvel at the stumps, ancient sculptures left as evidence of the forest before the reservoir. It felt funereal, as dead trees do, but peaceful too. Soon water would cover the area, and a fish would swim by.
I’m pretty easy when it comes to nature, not quickly disappointed. I just need enough to go around, to share with others both human and other-than-human. Our campsite still delivered.
A family of Douglas Firs stood guard on one side – mom, dad, three adolescents, and one oopsie baby hiding behind them. At their feet autumn had begun in the blushing leaves of young vine maples and thinleaf huckleberry. Rounding out our circular site, a seemingly landscaped comingling of western white pine, western hemlock, western red cedar. As we prepared breakfast the first morning (buckwheat crepes), a tangled strand in my favorite shade of celadon green came floating down from one of the Douglas firs. My plant app ID’d it as Ramalinaceae, a family of fungi. It looked like a mashup of lichen and moss, and I had the urge to pin it in my hair as an accessory. (I did not, I left it to the forest.)
Seated in our low-back chairs, Chloe cozy in my lap, we faced a steep mountainside dense with conifers taking in the afternoon sun, photosynthesizing as they do.
“Should we move our chairs to the shore for a better view?” I asked.
The ‘shore’ (a ribbon of sand that at other times of year is met with water) was a thirty second walk through trees.
Robin shrugged, cracked a Kolsch.
Good answer. We already had what we needed. The way I felt, momentarily healed by the embrace of life all around us, was enough*.
*Lest anyone leave this post with the notion that every minute was idyllic, here are a few parting words about the ‘bathroom’.
I’d been to campsites where the bathrooms included hot showers, flushable toilets, and brightly lit sink stations. And I’ve very much appreciated basking in the knowledge that those accommodations were available.
At this campground (pleasant in every other way!), the bathrooms consisted of a collection of pit toilets. Holes in the ground topped some distance higher with a seat. The first day we were there, a few small, almost quaint flies flitted about. Totally expected. By the next day, lifting the seat (with TP) unleashed a swarm that had me backing away and recalibrating just how badly I needed to pee. Hovering myself above the pit would be an act of vulnerability I didn’t think I had in me. I clenched my fists in defiance. Could I go behind our tent? Was that against the rules? Would the scent attract mountain lions or bears? Would I be harming the flora with my salinity?
My bladder decided for me. It was unpleasant. I tried going there again before bedtime, and I couldn’t. I don’t make a habit of breaking rules. Robin often says to me, “Stop inventing rules you think you can’t break.”
Afterwards I frantically googled if it was against the law to pee in the forest. Turns out you have to walk far from the campground to do so legally (and may encounter a deer and mistake it for another human in a moment of pantless panic). I remained very thirsty until we left the next morning. Next time I’ll be more prepared.
Annegsherwood.com 