The promise of a string of perfect fall days lured me on a jaunt down the Hood Canal, stopping at some of my favorite places on the Olympic Peninsula and discovering some new ones. My ultimate destination was a solo meditation retreat at Alderbrook.

First stop: the Dosewallips River in Brinnon, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town, but home to the fabulous Whitney Rhododendron Garden.

The Dosewallips River flows slowly and quietly as it widens at its mouth. Where it streams into the glacier-carved Hood Canal it merges easily—fresh and saltwater combining without hesitation or resistance. Big leaf maples glow along the bank, casting golden ripples across the river in a swath of light like morning moonlight. Cottonwoods scent the air with their sweet sap.

The river is at its shallowest, awaiting the first rains of autumn. I walk out onto the exposed rocky bottom and enjoy the view upriver into the jagged Olympic Mountains. Only a sugaring of snow has fallen so far this season, but even that has melted in the October sun. The craggy mountains are bare on this side of the range—there is no hint of the permanent glaciers hidden within this vast circle of wild mountains—a snowy center, like a surprise cream filling in a French pastry.

Ducks drift lazily down the river, resting up for their trek south. One pauses, stands and flutters his wings as if doing a pre-flight test, and at the same time revealing how shallow the water is.

Next stop: Alderbrook, sunset along the canal. The jagged Olympics are etched starkly against an aqua sky, and thin pink and plum clouds hover above the peaks catching the last glow of the day. These are uninhabited mountains, without alpine villages or lodges or even cabins. Pure wilderness. Part of the earth left whole, allowed to inhale air cleansed by the Pacific and exhale clean, conifer-scented breaths.

A lone seal skims the flat water, his bulbous head drifting along the canal like a lost fishing float. Earlier I saw him clamber onto a dock to warm himself in the scant autumn sun. I wonder if he dreads winter, the shorter days? In spring, does he, too, celebrate the returning light and rising temperatures? Or is it all good weather for a seal—just different? While the mild shifts of weather in this area may not affect him much, he must be aware of fluctuations in his food supply. Hood canal seals are known to dine on the wealth of salmon found here.

As the sunset drains from the sky, ducks tuck against the shoreline for the night. The seal still cruises the darkening waters, sending navy blue ripples in his wake…is he sport fishing or just having fun?

The outline of the Olympics persists long after sunset, backlit by twilight, then starlight beginning to glimmer like fairy dust scattered across the sky—or flickering points of light like candles for my birthday cake. That day is just around the bend, and I’m celebrating early while the sun still shines. Rain is predicted for my day, as is often the case in the far northwest.

So today I turned my face to the sun and held the warm glow as a memory to rekindle later in the week.

I gathered scarlet maple leaves and absorbed their hot redness into my veins, enriching my blood with their life force. Though it is cold that has turned them red, it is their symbolic heat that I hold in my heart like a lover’s smile on Sunday morning. This feeling of being fully warm must last far longer—four to five months at least—until we spin back around our ellipse, re-greening with hope and new life and chartreuse afternoons.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What nurtures your heart?
• What can you store away to warm your winter days?
• What shapes and hopes and ideas are etched against your night sky?
• What fresh air do you need to welcome into your life?

DOWNLOADABLE AFFIRMATION CARD

OFFERING

Enjoy the beauty of autumn along the Dosewallips River on a mousepad from Cafe Press. (Click the mousepad to learn more.)

Crave more mountain trips? Climb into other mountains here.