5 – 9 – 08 Elwha River Valley

Just after dawn and cold but baby Layla is warm and happy after her first night of camping. The frogs’ nocturnal chorus mixing in and out of the Elwha River flow.

Will she remember this? Her 8-month birthday was yesterday.

Lau is worn out from sleeping on one side all night, the baby tucked up against her. “Podes hacer cargo de la nena?” she asks, then goes right back to bed.

Ah yes, I tell her, already slipping out of the warm bag and into jacket, pants, baby-sling.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for a while.

Baby L kicks and fusses a bit, staring at the ceiling of the megamid just like I do sometimes. Her legs are fat and warm.

I get her into her bear-suit and then strapped on my chest and we go out into the cold shade of the valley, the sunrise not yet reaching the treetops across the river. I open the van to let Juli out and he’s immediately back on the mission he started last night, tearing through thickets and ferns, sniffing the upturned piles where shrews and voles have made their tunnels and cities. I get some coffee going. 

These early walks—mug in hand, a pad and pen, the rest of camp asleep—are one of my greatest pleasures. There's a gentle insouciance in the early morning, a connection to the ground from where you’ve just risen and to the dreams you’ve had there. Unlike Juli, I have no mission, no real direction except towards the river, towards the water (always) and first strokes of sunshine on the high ridge opposite camp.

As we walk I notice Baby Layla in this exact same flow with me.Her head rests just off my chest, her eyes halfway focused through the ferns and alder branches. We step across Olympic Hot Springs Road and I get a clear view of Mt. Fitzhenry. For the first time all day my mind sails off to somewhere other than where we are, to that massive snow bowl . . .what it would feel like to be up there looking back down into the valley after climbing or skinning up half the night . . then latching your bindings. . .  one last hit from the thermos, one last breath, then leaning forward and. . .  

But the vision is only there for a second and I’m back to where we are, crossing into the forest where there’s no wind and no sound but the river.

We cross an old picnic area then veer off-trail towards a cathedral of huge Douglas firs and big-leaf maple. The sun has just cleared the eastern ridge and we turn and warm our faces.

Our family is new to this region, this place most people associate with rain. An there's truth to that association, undoubtedly. After being here half a winter and half a spring, I’ve learned not to count on a sunny day here--ever--but to simply appreciate a sunny moment, whenever it is.

But for me anyway, if you could distill all the days we’ve had into one defining image, it wouldn’t be incessant rain but sun, the early morning sun glowing in the moss.

We turn and continue on toward the Elwha and suddenly flush a pair of elk. There's the sound of their hooves cracking branches and then they're gone. Juli is nose down in the thick brush and can’t see them but hears and senses the movement and looks at me wildly. I tell him to stay and leash him up—otherwise he’d chase them for miles—and then let him lead us to a hidden zigzag of game-trails beside the river, and the dank, matted fir boughs where they’d bedded down last night.

“See?” I say to Layla in my goofy dad voice. “This is where they slept.”