...and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs
With a soft inland murmur....
From "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey," William Wordsworth
The
inspiration for Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey” poem was his return home to
England after five years in France. I love that one of the first things he did
upon his return home was to go hiking. Of course. One always yearns to know if
the music of the stream still sounds the same as it tumbles over the stones it
has been smoothing for generations, or if that one large boulder still hangs
out over the ridgeline, untumbled as of yet, or if the centuries-old oak is
still standing strong against every storm. I can relate.
Some
weeks ago I needed to take a run up to Forest Falls (a small mountain community
about a half hour’s drive from me) as I needed to purchase an annual Adventure
Pass. (It’s a parking pass required for many mountain areas.) I also needed a gift
for someone, so I went the long way, driving first to the little town of Oak
Glen where apples grow. I bought some lovely jam and a cup of coffee, then
climbed back into Sky (the Subaru) to head for the mountains. As I left Oak
Glen, however, I was surprised to see an entire herd of deer lounging about in
one of the apple orchards. Mind you, I’m in Southern California. Most folks
don’t see deer very often. When I see them, it’s only when I’m wandering the
hills. The most I’ve seen is five. I counted a baker’s dozen in this group.
Sorry the photo below is dark and grainy, but it’s the best I could do while
pulled over on the opposite side of the road trying desperately not to get hit
by other drivers flying past me at breakneck speeds.
And
then it was on to Forest Falls… where there are so many memories for me….
I
made my first journey to the falls as a high school student with a group of
kids I used to hang with at a Christian coffee house. My high school sweetheart
was with me that day. (Tarry with me here while I heave a sigh for those days
of young innocence.)
A
few short years later, I was married—and already a writer. I won a national
writing contest and was awarded free tuition to a writers conference at Forest
Home, the conference center in Forest Falls. For four days, I immersed myself
in all things related to publishing, and I loved every second of it. I learned
how to write a book proposal, and I went home and wrote one. By the next year
(because I couldn’t wait to attend again), I was seeking a publisher for my
first book. By the third year, I’d become a published author. I attended seven
years in a row. In those early years of my marriage, when my life revolved around
cleaning and child care and trying to placate a chronically irascible husband,
those four days I spent away were my annual retreat and re-focus time. All of
it was magical—chatting at dinner with other writers, sitting in lectures
taking copious notes about what publishers wanted, meeting kind and encouraging
people… and roaming about the grounds of Forest Home, with its pond and
squirrels and everywhere the scent of pines lingering in the fresh air. (May I
please pause here for another sigh in remembrance of all those special times?)
Many
years later, after my children were having children of their own (and I had happily
disassociated myself from both my former husbands), on a beautiful early spring
day, I picked up three of my grandchildren for a day’s outing. Ben, Ellie and
Reese were ten, six and four at the time—the perfect age to wander around in
oak duff, get dirty, freeze their fingers in the stream, find rocks and sticks
that are “pretty,” and marvel at the height of trees. Of course I took them to
Forest Falls. They were so young, I doubt they remember the trip. I will never
forget it. In less than two years from that day I would be living in a cabin on
a mountain myself, and they would come to Nana’s house to do all those same
activities (including feeding the bluejays and woodpeckers), but that first time
in the mountains with them was priceless.
These
are all the memories that bring a tidal flood to my heart when I drive up good
old Highway 38—the same route I drove at 16 (1970, if you must know) the first
time I went—and follow the narrow winding road that leads into that beautiful
canyon.
Each
time I do, I am surprised and blessed to find that yes, just as Wordsworth
found, “these beauteous forms” and “the sounding cataract" are still the same as
they were all those years ago.
I
have an old faded photo of the waterfall in Forest Falls from 1970. I could not
copy it here as my then boyfriend is in the photo, standing above the falls
with his arms outstretched. I have his number… I suppose I could have called
him to ask his permission to use the photo… but look, I took a new one! And
trust me on this: The waterfall is the same now as it was when I was sixteen.
Oh,
the memories are still ruminating! But what Wordsworth was getting at in his
poem was that, while the world around us can be fraught with chaos and upheaval,
Nature remains immutable (unless Man mutates her), quietly, steadfastly
continuing, going about the day to day business of completing, over and over,
the cycle of life.
Going
back, sitting by that same stream, listening to the sound of the water falling
over those same rocks, anchors me to earth again when I begin to feel unmoored.
Oh—and
there was snow on the ground that day, but I couldn’t get a decent photo. Next
time!
