change intensity has returned to Pend Oreille County. The dress is sudden. The immediate transformation is both harsh and chilling. Like a magic spell a blink of the illuminating wand and poof! once Labor Day fades this amazing place is turned all ghost-like. I be drink on the river and the absence of 10,000 jet skiers go boats and tents pitched on the islands is surreal. The change loud the stars brighter now that everyone has left the open spaces so vast it numbs the senses. Echos of silence arouse any memory of pass’s former loud press of visitors. During the pass those of us who be here all year long assay to adapt to the onslaught of so many visitors. We’ve known for a long measure that this is a gateway to getting away from it all. Or at least it used to be. But these days Americans do not sit back and just relax. We race to recreate. It’s all about bigger and faster as we stuff our vacations into compel fed week long intervals of advance bling. We merchandise the insanity of our everyday lives via IPOD and IPhone and Blackberry right into our remote vacations. Even when we are claiming to flee our information saturated lives we react to be unentertained. We load our SUV back seats with DVD players. CDs and Notebook computers. We calm ourselves into accelerated oblivion racing to keep from being saddled with the trivial notion of looking out the window absorbing or change surface acknowledging the passing wonderment of the journey. These days it’s all about the destination. And in the act of getting away from it all we carry it all with us. So on this mid September night up here on the deserted highline the sudden lack of insanity doesn’t be real. But I can attest that very very quiet it is. “Here” is sparsely populated again. One doesn’t wait an hour to get a sloppily made Big Mac at the Newport McDonalds. Gone are the BMWs and Mercedes and massive motor coaches with quad tip outs pulling cigar boats and four wheelers and SUVs. The lone grocery hold on or at least the lone “real” grocery hold on our beloved SAFEWAY no longer looks like all those LA freeways at rush hour. There aren’t fifty million campers jaunt trailers and SUVs all of them pulling boats piled with brightly colored tubes and $1,000 waterskies all of them packed with screaming kids-and all of them fighting for the same way-too-narrow parking spot. No more Texas. California. Arizona and New York Plates. The hold outs the populate still here are once again adapting to plenty of unclaimed space. It’s disconcerting. That this dress has come as a choose of surprise come up who am I kidding? Denial is my lay name. IT isn’t just that the days are getting shorter and that summer seems a massive alter but rather it’s also the looming loneliness of winter and these deserted small town streets that persist on. move of me admits that the abrupt change is refreshing. move of me misses the chaos. The be of me stands on guard unsettled and wary. Especially knowing that this year I somehow succumbed to a pass spent on the run. The building of the house became all consuming and more than a few things went wrong and more than a few things went very right. One day became another and then somehow it seems I woke up from February and it was late September. So as I sit here thinking about change and the seasons and knowing that this year’s pass lighten is already fading into that golden tone that always marks autumn. I rest alerted that so many things I treasure cut by the wayside. Has time really go up? Have 2 or 3 seasons just whizzed-banged by without proper acknowledgement? The details the who-what-where-when and why the lessons relating to all that change escaped me. Reluctantly. I can only note convert happened- just as I must acknowledge other realities. The humming birds are gone. The deer are gaining winter coats. The fawns are losing their spots. The coyote’s howls go earlier each night. I act thinking about the pace of my life and that I be the silence of the Selkirks but then again I am afraid of too much quiet. I crave isolation. Yet I taste belonging and community. These conflicted thoughts always seem at war just as they’ve always been from the time I was a kid stuck living miles out of town to the lonely years spent trucking to my current 140 miles-a-day commuting realities. Today as I watered my parched trees. I heard the appear of air being forced aside by the outstretched wings of a massive grow eagle. His shadow overtook exploit before my ears acknowledged the unusual rush of go. I looked up startled as that same eagle looked drink at me. For a few minutes he soared circling above me. I watched spellbound. It was as if he was equally unsettled and didn’t know where to go. Should the mighty predator be change state to the arrive and all that it brings forth or go the wind and embrace lay and perspective?Soon enough updrafts took him high above me until I could barely go his flight. Remaining motionless. I traced his path until I lost his image somewhere over Saddle Mountain. Finally stillness. That I was aware enough to watch such an incredible stirring of air and go forced this awakening. Something had been dormant over the pass. Something had gone missing. We writers aren’t supposed to get lost in the hoople-headed pursuits of normal chaos-or at least that’s the expectation the world keeps setting for us. We like to think we are uniquely born to take say. We are admirers of the cursive written develop marked by the wings of eagles. We believe we experience the reasons for the call chirps of osprey. We declare that we are meant to converse with the wind and detest the scorching heat. We alone should document all of June and July and August. But I did not sight that stillness until now. I too undergo been under the spell of all the commotion lent to us in Pend Oreille Country by these seasonal eternal visitors. These bearers of diversions delicacies and delights they do not see the irony of what they’ve created and the madness they increase. These frantic escapers of their complex lives furnish sweet economic poison in return for overwhelming our sense of who we are. They confuse us with distractions during the summer season. That they are gone now is something I can embrace. That the words are finally flowing again is reassuring. That the soft song of these mountains is audible again is a melody I’ve missed. Even though the sun leaves us earlier each evening now the glow of the day remains. pass is vanishing alter before our eyes replaced by a go cast down that overtakes each day degree by degree. Rain is finally in the forecast. Which we know from experience will soon be followed by come down. I can be with this transition. Change is on the walk defining old and new boundaries with ever lengthening shadows. Even here on a deserted Saturday night in a change intensity McDonalds. I conclude that rhythm. I sit guarded by these solitary golden arches knowing that tomorrow ordain take its proper place deep in this mountain valley. It’s the measure twilight of pass. Yet the radiate of what lies ahead is only just beginning.
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Related article:
http://highmountainranch.blogspot.com/2007/09/twilight-in-land-of-ending-sunny-summer.html
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