Last evening I dropped a tree over the edge of the world as I know it. The Douglas-fir died in exactly the spot I directed, sent there with a chainsaw and hand-winch. I am not an expert feller of trees, although decades ago I did make my living dropping lodgepole pine around what then were million-dollar homes.
Twenty-four hours after Winter Solstice, and I’m craving solitude. The road to the Johnny Gunter place traverses night-struck ridges into the heart of the Coast Range. Rivers of fog flow over the asphalt, drowning headlight beams in formless vapor.
I meandered out to the river at lunchtime, engaged in my winter project of promoting a healthy brain chemistry. I can be taught. I’ve been beaten by the dull gray club of decades of Oregon winters. In January, any daylight is helpful.