Journal: Coldspring, Manning Park
Coldspring; E.C. Manning Park
British Columbia, Canada
June 21, 2021
Day One
We finally decided on a campground, with an extra special need to escape as of late. Packing up the tent and the sleeping bags, we headed East.
It, this, here, now, is the furthest we’ve traveled in what feels like years. Because it has been. A year and a half since I went anywhere, and more than that for la Riene. Making it a tad more interesting, we haven’t done a ton of travel together by vehicle. Fortunately, Highway 1 to Hope was barren of other cars, and the short — but gorgeously twisty — Route 3 from Hope to Manning Park was truly wonderful.
La Riene, being the ever-courteous partner and driver that she is, took the roads pretty slowly, for my sake. Something I should verbally appreciate more often.
Our site is only a few yards away from the river — The Similkameen, to be exact — and a bit of an incline valley down from the highway. When the big logging rigs crank up or break through the twists, it sounds like a large, gargling beast somewhere just beyond the treeline.
The day kicked up and got unbearably hot before we even left home. But, we are tucked into the mountains here, so the shade came hours before tonight’s 9:30pm sunset is scheduled.
As it turns out, I am not much of a camper anymore. La Riene seemed to take the update in stride. “I’d rather stay at the Fairmont,” she said. Noting that camping was the cheaper, albiet less comfortable option. There was a panging in her voice. She would later admit that I probably should have told her after our trip, to avoid her having to be concerned about my masked displeasure. She was, as is almost always, right.
I should have told her afterwards.
Though, to be fair, I shared an open thought at the time of discovery. Out of comfort. And love. And importance of her opinion.
And I am pretty glad to have a partner I feel free to think aloud around. That is something magical in its own right.
We roasted hotdogs and marshmallows, and breathed in all of the calming coolness of the evening. She is truly a sight to behold. Both the park, and the woman I cannot wait to marry, and find myself always gleeful to share these moments with.
Day Two.
Just down the road from our riverside camp is the fancy, and well-maintained Manning Park Resort. Only relevant to us thanks to it being the nearest general store. And, as it bound to happen with a couple where one person hyper focuses, and the other does the opposite; we forgot things. We, having not spent this much time actually doing nothing, quickly burned through our rationed cigarettes, also needed a restock.
No gas available there, unfortunately. Which will make our short trek back the way of Hope a closer call than we’d originally anticipated. Especially as La Riene purchased gasoline on the way here, but forgot to actually pump it into the car. Where we need the gas.
This is the kind of flub that just makes me laugh uncontrollably rather than feel any kind of anger or disappointment. It was … hilarious. Actually. And, it is now a joke at her expense that I will gladly use any chance I get.
There was a moment. Heavy, strong, and unimaginably attention grabbing. Swinging in my hammock — we’d purchased cheap “camping hammocks with express understanding that we should keep our expectations valued to the thirty-dollars spent — and it was nearly pure bliss. A special moment comes when you suspense your physical weight. Swinging. There., Knowing the day was upon us, enjoying the peeking sunlight, entrenched in my book. It was my favorite moment in a long time. Especially when considering I was fully aware that my favorite person, and her pup were napping in the swaying fabric next to mine.
Pure magic. Time stoppage. That kind of awareness that lets you dodge bullets. You’d swear you could hear the sound of the rushing river slow to a crawl. Fingers on records spinning.
I’m often quite struck by the way she looks at me, almost more so than awe or surprise at the way she looks after me. I feel like I am in rarefied air. Something I hope I do not lose sight of soon … or ever.
There is a way that she is her, and it is astounding. I wish that I can return that wonder. In kind, or if not, by sheer force of will.
Part of the beauty of being out here is just that; beauty. This Earth’s. Hers. Even mine. It is all on display, not clogged up by some to-do list, bother over chores, or any of that other noise. It is my presence, her presence, and a whole mountain (or two) of nothing else from the “outside world” … except for our need for gasoline, and our unplanned “donation” to the Shell station in Hope. That still broke through the silence.
We walked the trail today, our second day, and it was a pretty easy loop. Overall, it took us just over an hour for a closed loop wrap around the river. It saw us climb up two rather steep inclines. The river being a conductor of all the sounds between these peaks does a fantastic job of providing a lullaby. A white noise that is just strange enough to the ears that it lives on the tip of your consciousness. Perpetually.
The water rushed, so cold, that it gave a notable ten or fifteen degree drop in temperature while walking alongside it. As opposed to the scorching heat found up the ridges on either side of the trail.
I stopped often to take photographs. Something that never seems to bother my hiking partner. At one point, in the tall trees atop a ridge, a stoppage was owed, and it became eerie the longer you lingered. These far reaching, skinny treets — some clung to by dripping moss — are littered with versions no longer greening. For every twenty lush and brown ones, a grey, fruitless, statues of them stood. Plenty have fallen over through the years. Littering the forest floor with carcasses. Husks.
We stood in a shade patch and listened. The croak and moan of a dead ry moved and spoke as it strained in a minor breeze. Leaned up on a brother still living, it was not going to see the underbrush, where it belonged, any time soon.
Whether or not it wanted this destination to be delayed I did not know. Perhaps it was crying to that which held it up.
“I will see the sun, as long as you hold me.
Do not let go. Know that you’ll know me.”
There is . . . as it turns out . . . a finite extent at which I am willing to expose a consciousness — one that is rimilar to our own — onto other living, but not thinking, things.
Dead trees included.
It is a practice I partake in mostly of our jest. Sometimes out of philosophical pondering. However, often just as a way to focus my mind. If only just slightly. And if only for a brief moment. It grants me some respite from my own consciousness. In a way.
Our hammocks are getting plenty of use today. It was another hot a muggy spattering of weather. Blazing and sticky. Aside from the trail walk, and picking up breakfast at the resort, it has been nearly all hammock, all the time. Well worth the investment. Nothing to be mad at there.
I’ve reintroduced myself to Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenence by Robert Persig — a philosophical tale wrapped around a motorcycle trip tale — on this trip. Starting so long ago, something else engaging must have come along to snatch my attention away from actually finishing this book. So that is where I stick my face on this adventure to do nothing.
I have had plenty to ponder over without having to delude my own thoughts, considering the state of my small world. The one we’re currently on a break from at this campground. Right or wrong direction: the Buddha is everywhere. Always.
Day Three.
Down early, up early on the final day. Checkout time is before noon, so it’s energize, organize, and pack.
There is an extremely beautiful smell in the air here. No matter where you turn, the sun is cooking the pines, releasing a tremendously … nostalgic … scent. Part of me is so stuck in this moment. With a very deep and lengthy inhale I feel like I am refueling a memory. This .. smell. All the while another portion knows that my grandfather would have loved it here. Even if just for that warm tree small.
I am getting to a point — either in grievance or through time — where I am more often met with a swelled heart and decent enough memories when I think of him. Rather than heart-ache all over again.
One breath at a time.
We leave ahead of our demanded departure time, and enjoy the ride back. Singing, and unwilling to actualize that we are about to be right back in the box that we started off our week within.
At least we have this.
Coldspring
The heat was fierce
when our feet took us from the river
too rushed to wade a day away.
A forest swelled with warmth.
Straight trunks.
Some long past brimming with green.
Washed with the scene of hot pine,
a smell you could not scrub from my grandfather.
And we climbed. Only slightly.
Enough to be left alone with the chorus of creaks and moans from dead trees leaned against the living among them.
A sway, in the wind.
Like we do.
It is an ashtray with mountains of crumpled filters,
and it whispers.
Of all the conversation taken place in this destination.
In the dark.
When the crickets are replaced with frogs.
and the water whiskey.
That is a sense.
Senses.
Let it in and you will never forget where we have been.
wf.
