1.2.01

Two days ago I rented a car and headed west, west as far as you can go in this state. Chased the last day of the year to the end of the earth. But despite my best effort, which was admirable, I reached the parking lot exactly at sundown. Packed a tea set and bowl, hongch'a and malch'a, and Japanese incense. Packed the ten essentials plus an indispensable candlelantern and a new Thermarest. Threw them all over my shoulder at twilight and dove into the forest with the headlamp braceleted around my wrist for later. For quite awhile the forest was alive in grays and the slick boardwalk reflected the light of the waxing crescent moon. It was like a comet I couldn't quite reach, always just stepping on the strands of the tail. In the diminutive light, I trusted my eyes to improve with the darkness, and they did. Two thirds of the way through the forest opened onto meadow. There, the firmament bare, the light of infinite worlds drizzled back to me and I thought I might just make it without having to turn on the lamp. I thought of all kinds of gleeful things, like that the moon, my suzerain, allows me a false independence. Or that the art above was the hand of night reaching over and pinching the eyeball moon. The trail descends into a thicker rainforest and that's when I could no longer see when to step up or down. I'd already slipped three times, fallen twice, on the wet planks. So I turned on the light and it was dim, but it helped. When the batteries died I changed them, and by stopping like so, the last of the reflected light escaped me completely. When I flipped the switch again the natural light vanished and all that existed was a bright white conical beam terminating ten feet distant. To the side, infinity. You have to talk to yourself at times like this. Have to say this is exactly like daytime. Think of the others you know who've done this, on this very trail. You! You have done this, once, long ago. (But I wasn't alone that time.) Walking as quickly as the slippery boardwalk allowed. And then the New Year's resolution came: Reality exists only in this triangle of light; everything else is imagined. Which are you going to believe - reality or your imagination? The ocean is never black under even the slimmest moon and when I finally reached it, its mercurial weight was no comfort. And the grasses along the shore kept creatures hidden. When I saw the light of a distant campfire, I felt immediately better. And my own camp let me feel absolutely safe. With the vestibule curled and hooked to the frame, the candlelantern putting the tent aglow, I lit the camp stove just beyond the door and cooked and ate sitting on my sleeping bag and the Thermarest. After dinner, the stove and I sat on a log before the beach, cooking and drinking hongch'a. I always think I'll have plenty of time to read, but when I travel to the ocean I only pass the time by watching it. Cup after cup of hongch'a the moon set, directly into the notch in the middle of Ozette Island, like a rare bird finally caught in the sight. Below, phosphorescence celebrated the New Year in claps and waves. I slept soundly alone on the coast. Woke nine hours into the day nigh of chill despite two pairs of socks, wool gloves, wool hat, fleece jacket and pants, Capilene beneath that, and my sleeping bag cinched to a nose hole. Myriad birds chimed in the trees up and down and on the beach, and deeper, the thrum of a receding tide. The first sky blue and the sea giving itself up in lavenders. Lavender! Ah, a winter ocean's light spared the imperfections of human color. Dragged my breakfast out to the sand and a flat log (but not without slipping and falling, banging up both knees) at a premonitory affording clear views of both Cannonball Island and Sandpoint. For a long time after eating, I stay there watching a tide sleepy from night activities. A hundred yards to the north, young seagulls feasted on a humongous squid deposited in the last high tide. They abandoned it upon my approach, circling restlessly at a fair distance. I left them their treasure to return to camp and pack. Took my time, stepping gingerly on untrustworthy boards. At the meadow the world became silent but for a reed of yonder ocean. The trees are stunted here in the marshland where winter ponds develop and recast the sky, which on this day was blue as summer. But the overwhelming sensation of silence held me there and I lie back on slimy wood gazing up at the sky as though I'd no auditory sense at all, searching for some bird or plane to deny the experience. Eventually a crow squawked and two people came clomping down the boardwalk. I told them Happy New Year and walked the rest of the way amid a forest reverberating with the clomp of my own boots on that long wood.

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