The waterfall’s hissing summoned us up the soft trail, reeled us in with its sorcery. It was like the world’s largest white noise generator keeping our minds in a buzzing state of relaxed readiness. Invigorating but soothing. There was no denying the electricity in the air, compelling us to believe something important was occurring here, preparing us for I don’t know — activity or even battle. Endless rockets of cold white water crashing into shallow pools, shooting shockwaves of mist into the air and over slimy smooth rocks. I got as close as I could without falling in, soaking myself with the spray. Cold blasts of wind came from nowhere, propelled by the falls. I stood behind the roaring curtain of water that glistened like infinite strands of pearls thinking suddenly of Stephanie and her unfiltered love of waterfalls. I remember she had wanted to do that with me, to show me the controlled chaos of standing so close to such force. We never did that. I shot some video, intending to show her but later decided against it, I don’t know. It would do no good. She belongs in the past and if I keep my mind there I’ll never be free of it.

Lauren and I hiked this moderate hike and studied the green life everywhere, stopping frequently to stare at the layered textures of the flora nestled in the Columbia River Gorge, crossing small wooden bridges and scoring momentary glimpses of the landscape below. We picked wild raspberries that grew in the sporadic bushes off the path. The ripe ones were of the deepest most royal red I’d ever seen, glittering like rubies in some sultan’s hoard. They hung there, calling with the weird music of nature. They wanted to be picked. They came off effortlessly, these velvety bloodshot marbles that contained a galaxy of scarlet patterns inside them. You had to hold them carefully or they would disintegrate in your palm. Merely touching them stains your fingers a little. They tasted tart and sour, nothing like the plump full berries at the grocery store that look ready to explode like an over-inflated balloon. These from the forest lacked that juicy sweetness but were somehow more satisfying. The wild raspberry’s piercing sourness made me think about a thing so natural yet mysterious as FLAVOR, made me realize I have no understanding of the process involved. So for that reason they were delicious. I handed one to Lauren and she spit it out, less willing than I was to sift through their spiky sharpness.