Day Five, the Black Arts

Snug in my tent in Index, Washington, looking well in my long underwear. It's raining now but I don't very much mind. For the first time since I bought the damned thing, I have managed to put my rain fly on properly. You see I wasn't rushed or hiding from watchmen or cops or standing shin deep in a bog. I'm at a proper camp site, designated for the purpose. It ain't grand, please do understand; there is no gameroom or pool. It is just a flat patch of ground by the prettiest river I have ever seen or heard about.

It meant walking two miles out of my way after twenty miles straight up hill. I'm in the mountains now and gosh but they're grand and just as steep as you could wish them to be. There are sheer rock faces and miles of trees and half frozen waterfalls. Winding between them all is the river--which one, I don't now recall--and just above that is Highway 2, a respectable, well-paved stretch of road with good shoulders and footpaths on the bridges. Folks drive a bit fast but there are bumpity strips to discourage the from entering my lane.

I started the day in soggy socks and walked the first ten miles in the rain. I ate the second biggest breakfast you've ever seen and it just went on raining. Dry socks are the secret to happiness; I don't care who you are.

But past Gold Bar I got to the mountains and the rain condescended to cease. I spent a diverting hour outside a gas station doctoring my pruny feet. Things got better from there. Until now it has always been the first half of my day I have better enjoyed. The secret is to suffer in the morning.

There were some scenes in the afternoon, though, which purely challenged my cynicism. I crossed that same unnamed river several times. It's high now and in something of a tizzy. There are great stones scattered about and the river's doing its damnedest to uproot them. Once as I was crossing a bridge, a train came by on the railroad bridge two-hundred yards upstream. It was framed by snow covered mountains, each one with a waterfall. It was so... perfect; it was like the train porn that decorated my walls when I was a kid.

I didn't stop; I didn't take any photographs. I barely even slowed down. Better I should just let it all be. I had to keep moving on. It would have been a perfect place to spend a late spring afternoon, waiting for the next train to come. This need for forward progress is what undoes us all. I've tried to get around it by not accomplishing much, by not believing in anything. But I suppose even I've got ambitions, however vague. Human Nature is sad.

Index is a paradise, by the way. I've liked no small town better. A bit cold, perhaps, but that's nobody's fault. It is surrounded on all sides by mountains. An earnest woman some ways up the road warned me against coming here. She said it was just crawling with meth addicts and, honest to gosh, devil worshippers.

Now I suppose I know as much as I care to about drug addicts, but the other group rather intrigues me. I ain't real religious myself, but you've just got to admire people of faith. Ain't met any yet. Perhaps she meant to say meth addicts and whitewater rafters, in which case she had it spot on. There are dozens. Some have gone so far as to open guide/outfitters. They are the priests.

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