Editorial

A Piece of Paradise

I was wandering through the Pacific Northwest on a sort of Americanized walkabout -- cruising by car from point A to point B, where I'd get out and hike, camp, hang with the locals, visit with other travelers -- when I came to Seattle.

It was September and I was heading south out of British Columbia. But I really wasn't interested in city-type entertainment. I wanted back country, woods and the scents of ocean and earth. So I turned right and headed for Puget Sound.

On the ferry between Seattle and the peninsula, I stood by the railing, turning my head left and right, not sure if I wanted to watch the city shrink or the unexplored shoreline grow. The peninsula won. And when we docked, I soon found myself driving toward the Olympic National Park, bug-eyed and drooling over the rich landscape.

It was late evening before I finally pulled into a campsite. So it wasn't until the next day that I was able to explore my surroundings. It wasn't until the next day that I wanted to cry because one day soon I would have to head back east, back home.

Hiking was a dream, like walking on cushioned earth it was so soft and rich. I walked inland, away from the ocean, and became engulfed by the trees, the ferns, new growth and old. I thought of the other end of the national forest -- its eastern edges in Glacier National Park, Montana-- and dreamed of hiking all the way to the Continental Divide.

I was roused from my reverie by the little people, dodging in and out among the trees, screaming with delight, pushing each other for fun. These were no fairies from folklore. They were the proud members of a local scout troop, racing home after a night in the woods. The chaperones, with sallow faces and wry smiles, swept the forest for stragglers.

Once that crowd had passed, the woods grew quiet again, with just the usual scurrying and snapping noises that make you pause and peer, trying to spot some shy animal. I sat on the edge of a clearing and wondered about the settlers who came through here, about the Indians who made their home here, about all the hikers who'd gathered flowers from the field.

There are moments in our lives that mark us, change us. I call them moments of grace. And for me, this was one. Whenever my days get too stressful, I sit back and picture that clearing: patches of sun and shadow, trees and grasses. When I concentrate I can smell the rich earth, feel the damp air and hear a branch break.

Reprinted with permission of Anne Studabaker and Profiles magazine.