River Solitude

Recently I warned locals about the high number of deer on the highway. I gave the location as the area around Eagle Falls, Boulder Drop, and Split Rock. It dawned on me later that I used the river for highway locations rather than mile markers.

Boulder Drop and Split Rock are specific spots on the Skykomish River that are well known to anyone who lives near the river. And it’s nothing new to use landscape as maps or guidance or to center someone on where they are in their world.

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The husband at Boulder Drop

The 13th of April was Sam Grafton’s 29th birthday. Those who read this blog know he is gone from our lives, lost to a kayaking accident. For his birthday we went out on a sunny and cool spring day to visit some of his favorite kayaking spots. There was still snow on the ground in areas and the old back roads were empty of people in these days of social distancing and self-quarantine. Empty except for us, on our river pilgrimage.

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Sam’s mother, when she invited me, didn’t give me directions by saying we were going up highway 2 and turning on a specific road. Instead, she simply said we were going to Top Tye.

From there we followed the river and streams to Log Trap and the Spout and Box Top. I had never heard of these places before as they are kayak routes most kayakers don’t attempt. But Sam did. He was one of only five to ever run Log Trap. A second is Rob McKibben, also known in the kayaking world.

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The Spout. Use the rocks on the far side for perspective how high and sharp the drop is. 

Not only is Rob an amazing kayaker, he was also our gentle guide on Sam’s birthday, leading us through the woods from one spot to another, telling us stories and bringing those runs to life for us.

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Log Trap to the right and Box Top to the left. Photo doesn’t show drop well.

 

It was a beautiful day that will become one of those gems in my memory. I am grateful Sam’s family included me, and so glad I gave the day to sunshine and woods and river and stories and friendship.

I came home and pulled up a YouTube video called ‘Tumwater Solitude: Sam Grafton Kayaks Wenatchee River Class V’ (link below). There’s a scene in the five-minute video, right about 2:25, that is framed from above so that nothing is visible except water and Sam. The river is a living force in that frame, whitewater foaming and rushing, and this little spot of green in the midst of all that power. The video is heartbreaking to watch, but it’s also beautiful.

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Log Trap. Again, the photo doesn’t give a good perspective for the size of the drop. 

Those few brief seconds encapsulate all that the river is and how it impacts us and forms our lives and marks our landscape. And how it forms our memorials, not just for Sam, but also for my sister, who loved the Columbia River in its wide-reaching depths. This coming weekend should have been her memorial, but it was canceled because of the limit on gatherings. We were to release her ashes to the river on that day.

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The Columbia

Two people important in my life, both deeply tied to rivers.

Those few brief seconds in that video encapsulate how Sam was part of the river. Not ‘fighting’ the rapids or ‘beating’ the run or any other phrase commonly used to show that someone ‘wins’ against nature.

He was just there, with the river.

We will reschedule my sister’s memorial and release her ashes and she, too, will be with the river.

And then both Jani and Sam will be with their rivers, forever.

Tumwater Solitude

 

Just A Funny Story

We were sitting at the table recently talking about a hike I went on with my sister and her family to Mt. Pilchuck, many years ago. I was telling my husband and son about the boulder field where you had to find yellow paint marks on rocks to know which direction to go. And that gave me a sudden flashback.

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Above the clouds on Mt. Pilchuck

Years ago dad and I were scouting a trail through the woods up this ridge, to figure out a route for laying pipe. The pipe was going to run water to a wheel to generate electricity.

I hadn’t lived in the woods before or done anything like this. Dad gave me a can of red spray paint and told me to paint arrows on the trees so we’d know where we’d been and could find our way back.

And off into the woods we went.

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The ridge we went up

I carefully painted big arrows on each tree trunk.

Hours later we finally turned to go back down the ridge.

And dad says ‘where are the arrows?’.

They were gone. We couldn’t see any. Just woods surrounding us.

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Because of course I’d painted them as we moved up hill, not thinking to paint arrows on both sides of the trees.

So we made our way home slowly. Very slowly.

Walking circles around all the trees.

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The Challenge of Listening

A friend asked if she could listen.

Have you ever been asked that or had someone who wanted simply to listen?

She’s doing it as part of her education. So, to help her, I agreed to have her come to my home and listen to me for half an hour. I wondered beforehand what I would talk about. Even though I find it very easy to talk to anyone, about anything, it’s completely different when you realize the person across from the table is simply going to listen.

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Ah, the freedom. I said things I completely did not expect to, and heard words that I, personally, need to listen to.

She’s going to be very good at her job.

All this made me think about the act of listening.

First, how many of us truly listen, as opposed to simply hearing?

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How many of us hear, but rather than accepting what we hear, feel the need to interject, to insert our own stories, to fix, to cheer up, to change minds?

Read over that list again because embedded in that question are the things most of us do when listening. Rather than just letting the other person be, we have to insert ourselves into the conversation in so many ways. And most of those come from caring.

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We want to ease another’s pain. We want to help. We want to make everything okay. We want to share our own experiences to show, by story, that we understand. Or that the person isn’t alone.

For example, I’ve learned over the years to tell my husband ahead of time when I’ve had a bad day and want to talk, but don’t need him to fix anything. I just need him to listen. When I’m hurting emotionally or physically and he can’t fix everything for me, he gets a bit grumpy. I actually love having that knight in shining armor there for me.

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But sometimes we just need someone to listen.

Think about what that would feel like, to be given the opportunity I just had, that freedom to be in the presence of someone who simply listens.

Think about this the next time someone wants to talk to you. Pay attention to your body language and eye contact. Do you fidget? Look out the window? Or are you immersed in the moment of that other person’s story? This is something else my friend is very good at. Nothing existed outside the two of us, one talking, one listening.

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Think about how often you speak and what you say. Do you interrupt? Do you try to make them see reason, or change their mind, or give them advice?

I challenge you, the next time someone wants to talk to you, to simply be there for them. Don’t insert yourself into their story. Wait until they give you a sign they want a response. After they are done, or even before they start, ask them what they need. Are they looking for help or do they simply need someone to listen? It’s harder than you might think.

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Then there’s the fine art of NOT listening…

I also challenge you to listen to more than their words. So many things we need to say are buried deep and only peek out in unguarded moments or in the unexpected tears we shed or in the way we move through our lives.

And I challenge you to listen to yourself. That might be the hardest challenge of all.

Mother Earth by Kariliene is one of my favorite songs at the moment. You can find it on YouTube. It talks about other ways to listen.

Listen to the animals

Listen to the trees

Listen to the spirits of the earth

Begging us please

Stop listening to greed…

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