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Cottonwood Canyon
2–3 minutesThe river—pale-brown with sediment, the color of fossilized soil—moves in one great heap, a sweeping rush like wind through a tunnel, and I swear I can feel it, the low-down coolness it forms from itself. The river is high, and in places it has risen halfway up the willows and alders, painting dark rings on
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Great Blue Heron
1–2 minutesYou there,scraping through the salmonberry leaves, slow-footed in the chutes of terraced clay, your eyes yellow, and seemingly lidless, the kind of eyes that belong to fish or reptiles. You walk, each step halting, perched, one leg lifted, talons stretched like spider-web, like an octopus wrapping its cloth body over a fish, parachute-like, the knobs
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The Forest Swan
2–3 minutesI woke up just before dawn. For a moment I laid there, watching the wind smooth the fabric of my tent, its touch gentle, like a hand pressing lines from a t-shirt. I could hear the rest of the group outside, whispering to each other, rattling metal coffee mugs and plastic cereal bowls, their silhouettes
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The Madrone
1–2 minutesWe walk into the fields, these open spaces that were once the farms of pioneers, once great swaths of white oak savannah, once tall grasslands where elk and deer stepped lightly through volcanic dust. The sky is big, here. You can see it all—the entire sweep of it, blue mixing into the pale, creaking grass,
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