Kings Canyon National Park | Camino Bay Books

Thoughts From My Journal – The River’s Patter

Dr. Brestrup — Sat, 16 Jul 2022 13:30:17 +0000

9-11: We walked again today, this time west until we crossed the bridge and turned east and eventually found a fallen pine a hundred yards from the River where we sat in silence for a while. Twig seems an unusual dog in that she can sit still as long as I am observing and appreciating her surroundings. We were in the midst mostly of black oak, ponderosa pine, and incense cedar; a fire, probably prescribed, had been through a few years ago and trunks were scorched fifteen or so feet up. Grass, forbs, and bushes along with other dead woody debris cover the land. Soughing of the River made for completion. Sounds probably don’t get nearly the credit they deserve as sources of delight; this beautiful landscape would be diminished without River’s patter. (I read once that the supposed taste of celery was actually mostly its crunch synesthetically merged with its intrinsic flavor—this is like that.) Sitting as I am, I always close my eyes for several minutes to better notice unobtrusive sounds: the few birds calling, breeze and leaf, insects when they’re speaking, and in this place the River. The trees, especially as I have come to know more about their relationships, above and belowground, with one another and with fungi and microbes, become an ashram of sadhus permanently meditating while surreptitiously managing their needs for moisture, nutriment, protection of self and community. They are admirable in so many ways and easy to love. No creature on this Earth is for use only.

Photo by Shane O on Unsplash

Thoughts From My Journal – Age and Rapid Change

Dr. Brestrup — Thu, 14 Jul 2022 18:15:05 +0000

9-9: The Sierra and Yosemite were never only Nature, beauty, wonderment, and the place I most liked to go. They were experiences of physical engagement, of combining exertion and sweat with the dust of a trail and the sights along them. Now I see how crucial that kind of engagement was to the experience. (It reminds me of Leopold’s Sand County Almanac where he tells the story of shooting a wolf and watching it die and then realizing that the mountain, they were on had been diminished: A mountain isn’t just a mountain, he saw; it is mountain inclusive of wolf and bear and birds and trees and the rest of its life. This may have been the beginning of his enlightenment.) I could never love these places less, but I see now that just walking their level trails and beholding their goodness and beauty, their infusions of spiritual connection, is not the same and, to my surprise, less meaningful to me. What this will turn out to mean for my times in Nature in the future, I’ve yet to figure out, but age is the period of rapid change and frequent loss so I should probably expect a degree of detachment from beloved landscapes. I can’t imagine that now and don’t know how I could replace them, but as went hiking and the kind of engagement it represented so also may go other facets of engagement. Not clear; I will be watching.

It sort of rained last evening and during the night. (I’m in Kings Canyon.) I’ve not been in the presence of rain for close to a year, and I truly miss it. This one didn’t amount to much moisture but was invaluable as sensation; it woke forest smells that only rain can do, and the rolling thunder may have been composed by Beethoven. The wind cleansed the trees of dead leaves and needles, pine cones fell, the canopy rustled vigorously and was privileged with unimpeded views of the night sky. Rain fell only in spurts but enough to drive me into the camper where the sound of it on the roof is its own pleasure. This morning Twig and I walked. South Fork Kings River by my estimate is only about 5-10% of spring flow (hard to guess; could be slightly more); not so exciting as the tumult of snow melt but still satisfying to sit beside and go with its flow (which is more, I think, than the Merced yesterday, which seemed even lower). To my surprise, one of the streams we crossed that comes out of the mountains to the south still flowed. The expectation of dryness is taking over my mind so any exceptions reassure a bit and, as flowing water always does, excite my imagination.

Photo by Ali P. on Unsplash

Sounds in Silence

Dr. Brestrup — Thu, 21 Oct 2021 13:00:54 +0000

9-11: We walked again today, this time west until we crossed the bridge and turned east and eventually found a fallen pine a hundred yards from the River where we sat in silence for a while. Twig seems an unusual dog in that she can sit still as long as I am observing and appreciating her surroundings. We were in the midst mostly of black oak, ponderosa pine, and incense cedar; a fire, probably prescribed, had been through a few years ago and trunks were scorched fifteen or so feet up. Grass, forbs, and bushes along with other dead woody debris cover the land. Soughing of the River made for completion. Sounds probably don’t get nearly the credit they deserve as sources of delight; this beautiful landscape would be diminished without River’s patter. (I read once that the supposed taste of celery was actually mostly its crunch synesthetically merged with its intrinsic flavor—this is like that.) Sitting as I am, I always close my eyes for several minutes to better notice unobtrusive sounds: the few birds calling, breeze and leaf, insects when they’re speaking, and in this place the River. The trees, especially as I have come to know more about their relationships, above and below ground, with one another and with fungi and microbes, become an ashram of sadhus permanently meditating while surreptitiously managing their needs for moisture, nutriment, protection of self and community. They are admirable in so many ways and easy to love. No creature on this Earth is for use only.

Photo by Thomas Haas on Unsplash

August in Kings Canyon

Dr. Brestrup — Tue, 19 Oct 2021 13:00:42 +0000

8-31: If it were possible to believe that gods created the Universe, the next belief might be that they had decided to use Earth for the indulgence of their artistic talents. To see just how much beauty they could create in, from their perspective, a limited space. When the god of Genesis stepped back from day to day and pronounced that “it was good,” this might be what he meant. From my own more limited perspective, I don’t see how they could have done better. It really was a work of art. In today’s parlance, I guess we’d have to call it performance art since it doesn’t just sit still; its parts all interact in ways that replenish itself as needed, dispose of detritus, maintain, and heal and renew. It really is quite a place. Of necessity, it had also to be useful, meaning that it provided the conditions and nutriment for rebirth and evolution, always changing, always restoring, always beautiful. Since beauty is imbued with spirit, it is also a spiritual place where love, identification, entanglement abide and enrich. But a flaw inevitably revealed itself—for a particular species usefulness begat exploitation and unrestraint and forgetting. That species, ours, severed its spiritual connection and has been flailing in opulently appointed misdirection ever since. We are now destructive, incessantly conflicted with ourselves and each other, unhappy, and seemingly willing to take down the Earth, for a long time to come, rather than return to full consciousness. It’s as if a relentlessly addictive drug dropped an opaque veil between our present selves and what we might be. A sad story.

It sort of rained last evening and during the night. I’ve not been in the presence of rain for close to a year, and I truly miss it. This one didn’t amount to much moisture but was invaluable as sensation; it woke forest smells that only rain can do, and the rolling thunder may have been composed by Beethoven. The wind cleansed the trees of dead leaves and needles, pinecones fell, the canopy rustled vigorously and was privileged with unimpeded views of the night sky. Rain fell only in spurts but enough to drive me into the camper where the sound of it on the roof is its own pleasure. This morning Twig and I walked. South Fork Kings River by my estimate is only about 5-10% of spring flow (hard to guess; could be slightly more); not so exciting as the tumult of snow melt but still satisfying to sit beside and go with its flow (which is more, I think, than the Merced yesterday, which seemed even lower). To my surprise, one of the streams we crossed that comes out of the mountains to the south still flowed. The expectation of dryness is taking over my mind, so any exceptions reassure a bit and, as flowing water always does, excite my imagination.

Photo by James Lee on Unsplash