My attention, of course. Today, I'm hiking the Dillard Street loop, which I have probably hiked over a hundred times since I moved to Eugene. Every time I go, it's new.
Today, as I cross the little footbridge that leads into the woods, I see a dead fall to my right, an Alder that came down in a windstorm two years ago. It didn't make it to the ground. It got caught in the fork of a White Oak. Now it has lost its bark and its limbs and it is only dead wood, shiny with rain, laying in the arms of the Oak. As I stand there looking at the dead fall, a yellow maple leaf somersaults down from above, and lands in and Alder bush, suspended, not three feet from my shoulder. It is so quiet here that the leaf actually makes a sound I can hear when it lands. On the other side of the creek valley I'm walking in, a very tall Douglas Fir has leaned over onto its comrades. By the end of the winter, this giant will fall to the ground.
As I continue to climb, the light comes up briefly as the clouds part, back lighting the leaves and trees to the south, turning the hanging raindrops into shiny jewels. At the next footbridge, I notice the little creek isn't running yet. But at the next two bridges ,higher up it is, making small splashy sounds as it leaps down from one tiny pond to the next.
Another half mile takes me to the ridge top, where the trail surface changes from rocky to packed earth, covered with a thick padding of pine needles and maple leaves. Up here, the Douglas Fir thins out and there is more Madrone, including a very large one I had not noticed before. Madrones shed their bark, revealing deep red wood underneath. This one is tall and bendy, and the rain has made it's inner wood shine in the sunlight.
Further along the ridge, I step out into a clear cut and there are open views of the valleys and hills beyond. Two valleys away, mist rises from the hollow. At my feet a tiny brown mushroom has pushed thought the pine needles. It wasn't there last weekend. Further down the ridge line to the east, a small rotted out tree stump is dry inside and tiny plants thrive there, sheltered from the winter weather. Now the clear cut reveals views of the summit of Spencer's Butte, another view I have not noticed in my many walks up here.
As I watch, a dark cloud appears from the South West and the Butte vanishes. The wind comes up and the air begins to smell earthy and wet, and slightly metallic. There is rain on the way. To the south the rain clouds are lit by sunlight breaking through the clouds, and they shine. Now the trail turns back to the west and loses elevation. Here the hillside is very steep, vertical in places. To my left, a silent, sturdy phalanx of Douglas Firs lines the trail.
The last mile of my walk repeats the first, but it is not the same mile. Now I walk a mirror image of the first mile. I see the other side of every tree, shrub and stone. The heavy rain cloud that made Spencer's Butte disappear has arrived. The wind comes up, the air smells heavy, and now the rain starts to fall, pouring down, and cold. The woods are transformed. The light is subdued, almost like twilight, as if I were in a private place. The rain drums down onto trees, leaves and my rain gear, creating a symphony of sound. At a footbridge, I hear voices, very clearly. I am used to hearing things in the woods, things that my mind turns into voices, to chase away the quiet. But these voices are so real.
Just about the time I think I am having a true psychic experience, I see them; a young couple hunkered down under the bridge, escaping from the driving rain. I finish out the last mile, the rain making everything bright, and just as I arrive at the car, a lingering peal of thunder announces the end of my walk.
This, my latest walk on the brand-new Dillard Street loop.