I’ve come to the edge of the wild land, a vertical mile to Hurricane Ridge. I study a subalpine fir torn in two, probably by namesake winds last spring. Its top half now lies on the ground, browning and disintegrating back into the earth. Chipmunks play hide and seek among its brittle branches. The bottom half may survive and grow a new, if odd-looking top—or it may die in place, shed its needles and eventually transform into a stately silver snag.

chipmunk picnics on wildflower in the Olympics

With just two younger trees beside it, this fir is vulnerable here at the edge of the woods, where it marks a sharp descent to the all-green valley far below. The broken fir is a reminder of the violent forces of nature. During the harsh winter in the Olympic Mountains, the tree would be buried in snow. But by spring it would have been exposed enough to snap, even though it is robust at several feet in diameter. Once the tallest tree on this ridge edge, now it stands shorter but steady, with no flexibility to sway.

Midday wind rises up through the deep canyon and brings sweetness from the valley floor—hints of fern and cottonwood. A gray jay stops by to beg, but I know better than to feed him. Mountain meadows are colorful, soft and alluring—to deer and to people. Drifts of violet harebells and lupine contrast with white daisies, persimmon colored paintbrushes and lilliputian tiger lilies.

The colors flow down the mountain like streams of rainbows.

Wildflowers spill over Hurricane Ridge in July

Patchy snow still lingers on glaciers in these mountains in late July. It is possible to be alone here, to be tiny, minute amid the giant trees, to contemplate these craggy inaccessible mountain tops.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What part of your soul is removed—distant—remote—from your daily awareness?
• What precious silence lives there??
• What heights do you aspire to reach??

The wind dies back to reveal utter stillness. Then the silence is pierced by a raven swooping above the valley, his loud call echoing off the steep mountainsides. He owns this space in this new quiet. A rustling beneath the fir reveals a shy sooty grouse, who shuffles out from under the tree and plops into a hollow in the bare dirt. By his yellow-orange eyebrows I can tell it’s a male.He swishes his tail feathers, kicking up dust as he settles into the earth.

The air is sweet and fragrant and pure as only mountain air can be. I take deep breaths of this precious exhalation of woods and meadow and imagine my lungs delighting in the cool clean ion-rich oxygen. In the absence of wind I can hear the raven shouting from a far ridge, claiming his territory, surveying his realm.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What space do you claim for yourself?
• How do you protect it?

It tells you something about the far reaches of the Olympic Mountains, that even after weeks of full summer sun, all the snow will not melt. What snow that does melt in this spot forms the Elwha River, the Chinook word for elk. When it tumbles out of these mountains, the Elwha is pristine and glimmers in deep green and turquoise. After a short journey northward, the Elwha empties into the Strait of Juan de Fuca and urges its water to the sea.

pristine Elwha River pours down from the Olympic Mountains

In these deep canyons, the rising wind mimics the ocean, building, roaring, rushing over the ridge. It ruffles the meadow, causing wildflowers to dance in the late afternoon sun. A cold front is moving in from the ocean and a chilling wind sends me on my way.

The raven sails high above it all, exulting in flight and freedom and the abundance splayed out below him. As he flies over my head I hear his wing beats pushing into the west wind. He reminds me to persevere in attaining my goals. Whssh / push / whssh / push.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What force in your life do you need to push against?
• What tendency do you want to overcome?
• Where do you need to express greater stamina?
• How can you become Raven?

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