Journal 2004

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1 January 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

In this New Year dawn I step outside for a moment and have a peek in through the windows at Dragonfly Place....

At Doty & Coyote's lair in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon, snow swirls in a windy flurry and quickly adds another inch to drifts that have hung around for a week. As the year turns, the weather turns from a few stars and a cold winter moon to many star-shaped snowflakes dropping from the sky. Doty gets up, sips coffee through his morning routine, pulls on his boots and welcomes the year by shoveling snow from the steps that lead to his home, an inviting gesture to those who might notice and decide to come visit.

Coyote sleeps in, acknowledging the New Year in dreams that dramatize stories that encourage his evolution as a self-proclaimed hero through yet another long year of mythic fame. Doty tolerates his imagined roommate's creatively-selfish comments and even shabbier habits. He even encourages him on this morning as a New Year's reminder of who he doesn't want to become. But Coyote snoozes on, unaware of anything but his orchestrated sleep.

Still a good way to begin this day, Doty thinks, even if it's only a temporary cleansing. As the year walks its journey, that specious canine looks more and more human ... an uncomfortable reminder of our fallible selves that step from last year to this one. With some New Year's resolve and a bit of effort, we transform ourselves into something new though a few flaws seem to hang around for a spell. That's the way it's been for centuries.

At Dragonfly Place, the snow lets up and winter sun slants across the ridge. Wind shakes snow from the boughs of firs and pines. Doty scribbles a story that takes him from somewhere old to somewhere new, and Coyote spends the morning inside his dreams.

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18 February 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

Here on this mountain ridge, the shifting of seasons is sudden and dramatic. Not long ago the snow was a foot or so deep. Icicles hung three feet off the eaves. And any day that reached 30 degrees was a balmy day. But all that has changed. For a week, wind and rain has pounded the ridge. Electric lights have flickered and danced like so many dying fires begging for fuel. Strewn with limbs from pines and firs, the soil is sodden and patterned with the deep, muddy prints of every critter who has braved the drenching blast and wandered past my lair. Creeks flow down hillsides where I have never seen creeks flow before. One of them cuts down the middle of my driveway. Though the rain let up more than a day ago, the water still flows, fed by springs who have come to visit for a few days. The first warm spell will dry up these woods and send the last lonely trickles of rainwater scampering into the valley in search of larger creeks and rivers. On those days, daffodils will smile their sunny smiles. And in the evenings, the bats will wake up and swoop after the dragonflies. The footsteps of every critter will crunch on the brittle fir and pine needles scattered thick over the brown floor of the forest. Here on the ridge, the shifting of seasons is sudden and dramatic.

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17 March 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

Before dawn, this ridge is swimming in starlight. I hear owls for the first time in quite a spell. Like a troupe of storytellers they call from tree to tree, adding the soft light of their voices to the star-lit night. Their stories bring on the sun.

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23 April 2004, in the Umpqua country of southern Oregon....

Before a storytelling in Roseburg, I visit the ancient village site where Deer Creek flows into the South Umpqua River. I have just published RETURN TO THE VILLAGE, a story set here. It is important to me to be in what is left of the village as afternoon fades into evening. This is the magical moment just before the traditional time of sharing stories, an echo of transition from the old time to now.

In the long shadows, muted light makes the many spring colors a dream-like memory of the afternoon as if the village is already a story to be told rather than lived. Except for the creek and the river with its mysterious island, there is little here that is left from the time when the village was the only community in the neighborhood. Consumed by city sounds and surrounded by hills reshaped by suburbs, the site is a jumble of concrete and overgrown blackberry bushes, littered with broken glass and patterned with story-starved words that now live here in the form of urban graffiti.

I have heard that as late as the 1940s, one could still come across scattered cedar planks here, all that was left of the 20 lodges that were the heart of the village. As I contemplate the loss, a motorcycle cop patrols the bike path that follows the river. Two women jog past, oblivious to us and the village, focused on a conversation whose story has its setting elsewhere.

As I am about to leave, a great blue heron glides silently from the island to the muddy bank at the mouth of the creek. This is a scene familiar to centuries of people who have lived here. We watch her for a long time. She fluffs her feathers. Slowly and deliberately, she walks to the edge of the water where she gracefully freezes into a time-honored posture, watching for fish in the shallows.

Later that night, after sharing stories across the river, I drive homeward. Still under the adrenaline-fed spell of mythtime, my eyes are wide as I gaze out the car window at a night sky bright with ageless flights of stars and planets. I remember the heron. Though the Golden Age of native myths may be a muddled memory, there are stories constantly coming our way. Many of them have whispers of myths that once called this place home. I round a corner with a new view of the horizon. Back at Dragonfly Place, as I close my eyes and visit the stories that come in dreams, a golden sliver of a moon turns onto her side and gently tips a modern myth onto the ancient landscape.

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26 April 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

Sunset on the ridge after a day of sunshine and heat. From my deck I watch bats flutter and dart through the last glimmer of evening light. Frogs boom from deep in the cool, damp shadows of the woods. The first stars flicker on in the night sky. During this twilight time of endings and beginnings, day and night stories overlap. Halfway down the ridge, as if tying transitions together, Coyote howls story after story with barely a breath between each one.

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30 April 2004, sauntering with Coyote....

Doty and Coyote are driving through the mountains of southern Oregon when Coyote nudges Doty to exit the freeway. Doty figures this dog needs a tree stop but at the bottom of the ramp he sees what caught Coyote's keen eyes: two signs. The sign pointing to the left says "Wolf Creek" and offers accommodations, a store, gas and a park along the creek. The sign pointing to the right says "Coyote Creek" and offers nothing.

Doty chuckles. "I have always thought that Mister Wolf was a generous and gracious host."

"Very funny," says Coyote. "Turn right and let's have a look."

After three miles of winding through the woods along Coyote Creek, Doty and Coyote arrive at the ghost town of Golden.

"See, what did I tell you?" jokes Doty. "An empty store and no place to sleep. Even in its heyday this mining town had two churches and no saloon. Pretty rare. Those thirsty miners had to walk miles for their libations. Tough life. I love these old buildings, though, and the stories that go with them."

"Keep driving," says Coyote.

Doty creeps the rig a few more feet up the road. He reads an interpretive sign that describes how creek-bottom areas that were badly damaged from years of mining are being restored into wetlands. There are clear-water ponds, islands, a trail system, an amphitheater. In bold letters below the image of a coyote in front of a setting sun, the sign announces the name of this place: Golden Coyote Wetlands. Doty's jaw drops and Coyote's muzzle stretches into a wide grin.

"Good name!" howls Coyote.

"Of course."

"What's a wetland?"

"A place that attracts waterfowl -- ducks and geese -- and lots of other critters."

"Oh, you mean a fat dinner table reserved for me. Golden Coyote. Meals on legs for my golden years?""

"That's one way to look at it."

"Looks to me like folks around here are excellent hosts."

"I knew that was coming."

"And well deserved," smirks Coyote.

"Right."

"There always one more grand story up even the most lonely road, don't you think? That's a good lesson for Mister Storyteller. Right?"

As Coyote bounds down the trail and into the wetlands, Doty whispers to himself, "Right again."

* * * * *

14 June 2004, EarthTeach Forest Park in the Cascade Mountains of southern Oregon....

In the faint light before sunrise, a mythtime map of the landscape fades and gives way to the bright real-time sun of a near-summer day. Meadows and marshes lush with springs and ponds, groves of oaks and pines and firs, looming cliffs that climb the horizon.... All night, these places celebrate in songs and stories the timeless exploits and adventures of Coyote and Bear, Bluejay and Raven, and all of their old time friends. Along with their ancient singing and telling, these places also listen to echoes of the creative efforts of those who spend the daylight hours here .... artists at the arts camp composing new songs, new stories.... All day, as bright as the summer sun, their voices fill the woods and meadows and climb the cliffs. Near twilight, as the camp shuts down and artists head home down the valley, a mythtime map once again covers the landscape. But each night the map is different. Old songs and stories alter their ancient forms to welcome new harmonies, new characters. Even Coyote, usually immersed in full obsession with his own versions of his semi-heroic portrayal in the myths, pauses to listen. His ears perk up as he catches the faint sound of his own name pronounced in a way he has never heard. "This is good," he whispers to the night. "Yes, as good as it's ever been."

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23 July 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

After a blazing hundred degree day, I sit on the deck at Dragonfly Place and watch the sunset. Bats swoop in the twilight. Stars blink on. A quarter moon shines cooly through the branches of Grandfather Pine and lights the meadow. Sunset glows a deep orange-red as if it has captured the heat of the day and made it visible. I watch the sunset in its western hearth, mesmerized, as I might watch the late-night coals of a dying fire. Colors pale as the sunset goes out. The air cools around me. The moon sets over the western ridge in a faint flash of white light. I sit close to myself as the dark night settles around me.

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24 July 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

Hot summer days here on the ridge. In the early morning, it's still warm inside the house. I sit outside on the deck in the cool air, listening to the morning songs of the summer birds and critters rustling through the nearby woods. As I eat my breakfast, I watch the long ears of Mister Jackrabbit as he munches his way through the tall grass of the meadow.

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31 July 2004, along the shore of Tule Lake....

As the full moon rises it turns blood-orange and sends a fiery trail of light across the ripples of the lake. I have never seen a moon this large. I tell Coyote it seems that I can almost see individual craters. Mister Coyote informs me that those are simply warts on the back of Frog who lives in the moon. Of course! He should know. Must be one of those exotic orange frogs, I tell him. Right you are, he says. Heading homeward, Coyote and I saunter into the mountains and the moon-rise follows us. Winding through the Cascades, the moon clears the trees and turns brilliant-white. I catch flashes of light in my rear view mirror, so singularly bright I keep thinking some one-eyed monster vehicle is following us down the road. Back home at Dragonfly Place, the moon rises over the ridge and lights the meadow. From one those few places that stay damp through the summer, a single frog sings to the moon.

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14 August 2004, Lower Table Rock in the Rogue Valley of southern Oregon....

Middle of the night. I saunter to the summit in starlight. There is no moon tonight. Through the darkest woods, I walk quietly with floating steps and find my way by feel and memory. I have made this journey many times and know the wisdom of trusting what my eyes remember from daytime treks and nights when moonlight flooded the trees. Had I used a flashlight or stumbled over rocks with heavy strides, I would have startled the night out of my experience. By the time I pass the bear-shaped rock at the top of the trail, my eyes are midnight-keen. Obscure stars shine bright and crowd familiar constellations. I settle into the heart of the rock, listening and watching the wonders of the night. Near the edge of the woods, deer walk loudly through the crackly debris of newly-fallen madrone leaves and bark. Shooting stars streak the sky. Coyotes yip and howl as if cheering them on. In moments of deep silence, I sense the presence of the Old Ones who wander just beyond what my eyes and ears can catch. A few more treks and perhaps they will reveal themselves more fully. At 3 am, Venus rises and adds a smidgen of pale light to my walk back down the trail. At the bottom of the rock, I fire up the rig and shock myself with the intensity of headlights. I drive home in pre-dawn silence, savoring glimpses of those few shadows that stalk what is left of the night.

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17 September 2004, North Mountain Park, Ashland, Oregon....

Early morning walk in the first light brings a trinity of gifts ... three deer browsing the grass near the amphitheater, three arrows of geese honking over the valley.... From the bank of Bear Creek, I spot what look like ducks floating the riffles. As they bob closer, duck shapes become heads. Three river otters pop up a few feet from me, give a curious and playful glance at who is visiting their creek so early, and then they dive and disappear into the murky depths of the creek. A trinity of threes at sunrise!

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27 October 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

This fall morning feels like winter. Below freezing, the nearly-full moon floats like a chunk of ice in the flow of the cloud-swept sky. The ground around my home glitters with frost and the icy blanket of last night's 10 minutes of freezing rain. Mister Jackrabbit somehow finds something to munch in the jewel-like glitter of moon-and-starlight. Though the air is cold, his eyes shine brown and warm and he looks happy and healthy. With the first light I see snow on the tops of trees just up the ridge, and with sunlight, the moon disappears and chunks of ice fall from trees to the ground with a clinking rhythm that welcomes the morning. Mister Jackrabbit hops into a puddle of sunlight and continues munching his breakfast.

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31 October 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

Driving home from town on Halloween night, the sky is clear except for a few wisps of clouds streaking the moon. By the time I reach the top of the ridge, these clouds circle the moon and make it look like the cold pupil of a ghostly eye staring onto the mountain landscape. Its gaze fills the night with light. If I hadn't noticed the moon, I might have thought dawn was coming earlier than expected. This would be enough to make me rethink a lot of things, especially on this night when anything is possible.

I like where my imagination wanders as it interprets what I take time to observe. A few nights before, on the night of the total lunar eclipse, the clouds were thick and the great event went unnoticed in this mountain neighborhood, except perhaps by Mister Fox. He visits Dragonfly Place nightly and I consider him somewhat of a friend. That night he yipped and yapped long and frantically during the span of time the eclipse was supposed to be happening. On the other hand, he's done this before on moonless nights when he's lonely, announcing to the cold darkness that female companionship would be warmly welcomed.

Though tonight's moon-and-cloud show won't warm Mister Fox's den or make astronomical headlines, it is worth watching. Alone on this ridge, beyond the goblin town drama of Halloween, beyond the door-to-door parade of witches and werewolves and ghoulish shapes, I look long and deep into the night sky. And what lurks beyond, gazes back.

* * * * *

3 November 2004, along the Rogue River in southern Oregon....

I spent the morning at the Salmon Run Celebration with youth and staff from the Southern Oregon Adolescent Study and Treatment Center. We wandered along the river, visiting hawks from Wildlife Images, a wolf from Howling Acres, and we listened to the wise words of our Takelma elder, Grandmother Aggie. From a footbridge that crossed the river, we watched the salmon run and the end of the spawning, and the triumphant and sad death of those salmon who made their final upriver journey. Canada geese honked as they migrated overhead, and native drumming and singing pulsed and drifted over the autumn-colored landscape, and up and down the river as it has done for centuries. When it came time to share the old time stories, everyone was ready, their hearts swelled with sounds and sights of timeless transitions on this brisk fall day. Words tied the day together, in stories and in the blessing before a feast of salmon. Even if there hadn't been food, everyone would have gone home full.

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15 November 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

A dream from last night.... I walk into a theater where it has been advertised an elder of the community will be sharing stories. The room is filled with empty chairs. I am the only one there. Strange, I think, as I sit down. A moment later, an old woman with a feathered staff walks onto the stage. As she stands in silence, she smiles and her eyes move through the room. She gives the same smile to me as to each of the empty chairs as she imagines an audience filling the theater. She begins to speak in an ancient language. I cannot understand individual words but strung together the words make powerful sense. Her voice is rich with years of living. Her wisdom vibrates through the theater, and each word magically fills a chair until there is a full house. Some folks I recognize as my neighbors in the community, others are semi-transparent as if they lived here at some time in the past and came home for one night of stories. The old woman speaks story after story, creating a local mythology. With her last word, she smiles and walks away from the stage. My eyes follow her as she leaves the theater. As the door closes behind her, I look around, and I am the only one left.

* * * * *

27 November 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

Through the night, in the cloud-filtered, muted light of the full moon, rain became sleet and turned slowly to snow. This morning, my memory of autumn wears a white winter mask. I step outside. Snow slides off the roof and thumps to the ground. In the shadows, Grandfather Pine looks like an old man bundled in too many layers of wool, thickly cloaked, weighted down, his boughs struggling to sway in the breeze. I notice fresh tracks across the deck of Dragonfly Place ... tell-tale signs of Mister Fox's nocturnal wanderings.... Morning light sparkles and mixes with moonlight, revealing the work of the night: a mountain landscape white and dramatic with snow.

* * * * *

20 December 2004, Dragonfly Place in the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon....

With two more nights to the longest night of the year and the beginning of winter, these short days have been mild for December, warm and full of sunshine. A few days ago I shared native sun stories and participated in a wonderful Winter Solstice Ceremony at Lincoln School in Ashland.

Picture this: a gymnasium darkened by closed curtains. A single candle burns in the center as elementary school students and their teachers and parents enter. We sit in a circle around a giant spiral created from cedar boughs laid on the gym floor. A troupe of storytellers dressed in white take turns telling a traditional story of an old woman and a child traveling to the place where fire is kept. Two students walk the spiral, each a character in the story, pausing now and again to mime the action of the narrative. As they arrive at the center, they light their candles and begin the journey home, bringing light and heat to the people.

After the story, everyone walks the spiral. In imitation of the myth, we light our candles in the center, and we walk "home" in the glow of warm light. We sing "Here Comes the Sun" as white-garbed students open the curtains and flood the gym with winter light. After recess -- some sunny outdoor time -- we share more stories and end with a feast to celebrate the return of the sun ... a beautiful celebration where inner light danced with sunlight on a perfect almost-winter day.