Day 99: Classic Americana down by the riverside...rusted-out car bodies, shotgun shells and brass cartridges, decaying paper targets, beer and "power drink" cans, cardboard and other paper litter, and undoubtedly a collection of less savoury items concealed by snow. Two miles in and with only a small daypack on my shoulders, there wasn't much I could do to improve the situation. In any event, the good-ol'-boy shooting parties at this location are at least a weekly occurrence, the detritus of great America in a state of growth far in excess of its potential to be removed. It was here that I saw the Chickadees and Kinglets; here, where two waters meet over breeding salmon. A juvenile Bald Eagle perched in a tree on the south side of the mainstem, a dramatic contrast to the shotgun shells stuck on the ends of north-side branches where they turned a grove of small alders into a redneck Christmas display. This Nisqually River raced by, waiting to be swollen with rain so that it might carry the mounds of plastic bags and bottles out to sea. I cried here, upon the sullied bosom of the Earth: cried for what we've done and what we've undone, both to the good and to the bad. My thoughts for the future, once sprinkled with a few small stars of hope, fell into shade and shadow.
Grieving for Nature, I turned homeward, but as I passed through the screen of brush at the back of this lamentable scenario, a furtive movement drew my eye to the ground. There, searching among fallen leaves for dinner, was my friend and guide the Pacific Wren. My dark reverie was dispelled by the cheer with which he went about his business. It's a funny thing: sometimes you don't see the lesson until days after the class. Thank you, Troglodytes. We'll get through this together.
