Eagles' Eyes and Campfires

The eye of the cormorant is emerald … of the eagle is amber … we miss the eyes of the birds, focusing only on feathers. Terry Tempest Williams

I often tell people I am a city boy, for so I am.

I grew up in Seattle and spent the vast majority of my time engaged in the activities of a city-dweller. I walked to school, bicycled miles to Puget Sound to fish off the jetty at Shilshole Bay Marina, bussed to Green Lake in the summertime to swim, and dodged cars along the noisy arteries coursing their way around and through the Emerald City.

However, I was not bereft of experiences in the great out-of-doors. My grandparents had a stake in the wilderness near Lake Cavanaugh, nestled in the foothills of the north Cascade Mountains.

Driving up to the “cabin” for family vacation was always a thrill. We called it a cabin because it had the vague shape of a building, a roof that was sometimes capable of sloughing off some of the rain that occasionally fell, and a door that gave a hint of security (although anything more robust than a fuzzy moth could generally gain access without breaking a sweat).

The road from Oso was a former logging road with switchbacks bracketed by cliffs to either side. Fortunately, my grandparents’ place was on a stretch of mostly level land a couple hundred yards or so from the lake. Dad would quietly nose the ol’ ’56 Studebaker onto the property, but never had to announce our arrival.

Upon setting the parking brake, the car doors would blow open with the force of a jet fighter’s ejector. Riding four kids across in the back seat, with sleeping bags and luggage holding us safely in place (as we had no seat belts back then), was sometimes a less than pleasant experience, and so once the President’s momentum ceased, we bailed out whooping and hollering like there was no tomorrow.

Sometimes it would take a few hours for us to decompress without the benefit of a hyperbaric chamber; if we had the bends, we simply took them in stride as we sallied forth into the wilderness to see if the woods and creeks were still there – and by Jove, they were!

While I would never wish to be ten or twelve again, those were wonderful, carefree, and idyllic times. The days were warm in midsummer, but never hot. The forest kept the air a bit cool, and if we got overly warm, we could go splash about in the near-freezing waters of “our” glacier-fed lake.

It was hard not to feel a bit like Daniel Boone or Davey Crocket up there at Lake Cavanaugh. We would often creep away into the deep woods looking for big game and wild animals armed with nothing more than our wits and some stick we’d picked up on the side of the trail.

The woods were safe for the most part as we moved with the stealth of an armored division on maneuvers, so we seldom spotted anything more magnificent than a pine beetle or a banana slug. But still, it was fun to imagine all the carnivores lurking just out of sight.

At night our extended family of aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, and all would gather ‘round the campfire talking about whatever it was that crossed our minds. The kids would recount their adventures while the adults would solve the problems of the world. We would roast marshmallows (which I had a knack for burning – consuming so much charcoal over the years that I am still quite good at filtering out political kopros, a Greek term that needs no defining).

Believe it or not, it was these family gatherings around the fire that I am reminded of when I am in church. We gather, we light the candles, and we share the stories of our lives – comparing and contrasting them with the stories of biblical villains and heroes. We share what we think and believe, and test those ideas with friends and neighbors who may experience life differently – and while we may disagree on occasion, we respect the dignity of each person gathered, for we are family, and we share a common light.

Respecting one another is largely what keeps the wilderness from becoming a jungle here in this, our valley.