A room with a view

If you’re fortunate on a visit to Seattle to have clear skies, even though it is nearly 100 miles away, Mt. Rainer appears to loom over the city. We followed that beacon to stay at the National Park Inn for an even better view of the volcano.

National Park Inn, Longmire, Washington

We stayed here 29 years earlier, and like the others sitting out on that front porch, got a view of the mountain that remains etched in your mind.

Mount Rainier National Park

A bit further up the road, you can pull over for a view of some of that melting snow and glacier tumbling down what is called Christine Falls. And if you’re lucky, catch a rainbow.

Christine Falls, Mt. Rainier National Park

In May, the road is only plowed up to the Paradise Visitor Center. If you have crampons and ropes, you can climb to the summit from there. However, we were content to rent snowshoes and simply enjoy the quiet and the views.

Between me and the noise of strife 
    Are walls of mountains set with pine;  
The dusty, care-strewn paths of life  
    Lead not to this retreat of mine.  

Alexander Posey, My Hermitage

I listen to a podcast called Poetry Unbound. Host Padraig O’Tuama usually recites and explores a contemporary poem. But this week, he shared The Dew and the Bird from Creek Nation poet Alexander Posey (1873-1908).

Before going to sleep at the National Park Inn, I set up the tripod near the front porch and enjoyed the stars. While looking skyward, I heard some noise, and looking down about 20 feet in front of me a pair of deer were chewing on the newly emerged grass and newly emerged frogs sang in the creek nearby.

I hear the river flowing by  
   Along its sandy bars;  
Behold, far in the midnight sky,  
    An infinite of stars!  
 
‘Tis sweet, when all is still,  
   When darkness gathers round, 

Alexander Posey, My Hermitage

Mt. Rainier night sky

While enjoying breakfast the next morning on the Inn’s porch, a Steller’s Jay checked whether we enjoyed the view and would leave some food behind.

There is more sweetness in a single strain

    That falleth from a wild bird’s throat,

At random in the lonely forest’s depths,

    Than there’s in all the songs that bards e’er wrote.

Alexander Posey, The Dew and The Bird

Steller’s Jay

The Waterfall -- Mary Oliver

I’ve shared some images from Obed Wild and Scenic River, a national park area in the Cumberland Plateau in Eastern Tennessee. With lots of opportunities for whitewater sports and rock climbing, the hiking trails are limited. A ranger suggested nearby Frozen Head State Park for hiking. We were off to find some waterfalls.

It was a warm, humid, sunny afternoon, and contrasty light is not favorable for photographing waterfalls. However, the forecast called for some storms and rain, so we headed out hopeful that conditions would change. We past a couple small falls on the way, but the light was too bright, so perhaps a visit on the way back.

We got to a nice twin fall with a big pool as clouds were moving in. About ten young kids were playing around the fall as parents watched nearby. Chance and I took a seat to watch when thunder echoed between the mountains. And — no kids and nice light.

Debord Falls

Few poets can imbue a poem with nature imagery as Mary Oliver. In 1991, Poetry published Oliver’s The Waterfall — For May Swenson. When Poetry received a massive endowment many years ago, all it’s prior publications went online so we can mine this treasure.

For all they said

I could not see the waterfall

until I came and saw the water falling,

its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down,

while something howled like thunder,

over the rocks,

all day and night—

unspooling

like ribbons made of snow,

or god’s white hair.

At any distance

it fell without a break or seam, and slowly, a simple

preponderance—

a fall of flowers—and truly it seemed

surprised by the unexpected kindness of the air and

light-hearted to be

flying at last.

Gravity is a fact everybody

knows about.

It is always underfoot,

like a summons,

gravel-backed and mossy,

in every beetled basin—

and imagination—

that striver,

that third eye—

can do a lot but

hardly everything. The white, scrolled

wings of the tumbling water

I never could have

imagined. And maybe there will be,

after all,

some slack and perfectly balanced

blind and rough peace, finally,

in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that

falling?

Mary Oliver, The Waterfall, Poetry, January 1991