The gift of renewal, given and received, in the Gorge

 

by JimmyJames

 

The winter morning broke beautiful, sunny and mild. Packing a 14-inch saw and an emergency pack I made an impromptu run to Angel’s Rest in the Gorge. All the way up the trail I cleared branches and small logs, leavings from the big fire four years ago. I sawed like mad, branch by branch, log by log. Hike, clear. Hike, clear. It’s 2.4 four miles up, 5+ hours round trip. Such a calm, beautiful day for late January. The blue winter sky itself a gift.

 

The saw cuts on the pull stroke, an awesome rip saw. Sliding back slowly is almost effortless. Pull, slide. Over and over. Very meditative — like the original breathe in, breathe out; rejuvenate, transcend.

 

Lots of people on the trail. Chatted with some. Many thank-yous, especially from those 50-plus. I told them there was nothing else I’d rather do, which is absolutely true.

 

Clearing the bigger stuff, I was in heaven and probably looked it. I’m sure younger people saw me as a bit loony. Twice, 20-somethings sincerely asked what I was doing. They’ll get it someday. Someday they’ll be 50-plus.

 

Halfway up, a 60-ish gal was finishing a loop from the east, nearly seven miles with a high elevation gain. Solo. We hit it off. She showered me with sincere thanks. I asked if she’d seen the larger cut logs beside the trail above Angel’s Rest. She paused, then quietly replied “Yes.” I pointed to my saw, at which she looked a little stunned. I told her I’d been up higher in early December. Before we parted, I told her I would clear those logs this spring. She resumed hiking, seeming half her age.

 

Higher up, a 50-plus man passed as I worked. He gave a smile and a slow, knowing nod as if to say, “I understand; good for you, keep it up.” Later, another man with years gave the same knowing nod.

 

Many times, I gazed up to Silver Star Mountain whose winter-white flanks beckoned north across the Columbia, wishing the Bridge of the Gods to magically form again.

 

High on the final switchbacks, on the steep side facing out over the Gorge, I sawed a chest-high four-inch branch. I paused, gathering air and rest, altitude and energy. A woman had materialized on my downhill side, just three feet away. She’d been watching. Her face and voice gentle, the 50-ish woman simply stood, content to watch as I methodically sawed — pulling, sliding. She understood the what and the why — that I was doing it simply because the work needed to be done. That’s 50-plus thinking. We shared this understanding, and we knew it.

 

She said she was born and raised in British Columbia, in a rural, outdoor experience. That her childhood setting couldn’t have been better. I told her how fortunate I have been, starting with my parents, my to-the-end sister and grandparents.

 

She admired the vigor of my sawing. I showed her how sometimes I have to hold a branch with one hand while sawing to keep it from pinching the blade. She gave an impressed “Ahh!” Soon she headed down, back to her family in Portland. Lucky family.

 

Now and then…  by myself…  facing out over the river…  my arms rise of their own accord, reaching to the heavens. Cosmic energy from the universe fills my body. Coming from above, the vitalizing energy flows down through my arms — lifting, inspiriting. Standing still and silent, I hear in my mind a joyful female choir. Arms lifted, receiving the life force — pure, delightful renewal.

 

The round crown of Angel’s Rest is rocky, open and welcoming. Gray and white expanses emit a slight pinkish glow. The full-circle view includes and is split by the mighty river. Wind-beaten, whip-shaped small trees and shrubs grow out of the rocks. I finish, sawing a few sharp remnant branches ready to stab a leg or waist, or a gift from God, a child.

 

Oh, my!! The fiery sunset atop of Angel’s Rest. Glorious sky and river. At sundown, my eyes rivet to the brilliant west. Ten minutes, who knows, gone in a dream. Now to descend — first by sunset, then by flashlight.

 

I’m so happy. Floating at times, even days later. A mountain forest high. Just thinking about clearing that trail and I’m floating. Feeling that river, mountain, and forest — now somehow in me.

 

I downed only one pint of water and no food that trip. Nothing more needed. I was so high, so filled, so…  enthralled. Hey, that’s not even a word yet!

 

Of course, you must be strong and young at heart to do this. You also have to be older to really feel the full of it. The trail needs tending. A human quietly volunteers. Nature surrounds, nourishes, inspires, heartens. The work is fulfilling and thoroughly enjoyed. The transcendent uplift, the spiritual fullness and boost — that is where the extra years make the difference. An older person can feel it.

 

While some of my phrases may pulse or bounce a bit, this was all very real. Maybe I’m still up there in the Gorge, in my mind. Hiking, sawing. Pulling, sliding. Certainly not getting any older, in my heart. Anticipating Spring. Hiking. Sawing. Floating.

 

And helping out up there, where needed, without being asked. Just because.

 

This is 50-plus Time.