Day 279: An out-of-state friend once remarked to me as we were driving along a country road in the bottom of a rather ordinary western Washington valley that the overwhelming greenness of everything here made her feel claustrophobic. Washington native that I am, I protested that it was more like a comfort blankie to me, as if the Earth was taking me to her bosom for protection. That's not to say I don't like wide-open spaces; in fact, my favourite locations in the mountains are those which are high, bleak and desolate, places where I can see anyone or anything which might be approaching to interrupt my privacy. Still, when I am out for the day in the kayak and the sun beats too warmly upon my back and shoulders, I seek out those shadowed, deep green places where light falls like confetti; a fleck here, a flurry there, never lingering on leaf or log for more than a few scant seconds. A thousand shades of green are in the hidden coves, patchworked with spots of unassertive brown or grey. It is not solely shade I seek or relief from heat, but the soulful peace of green in all its myriad hues.
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