Holly and I tried to find the trailhead for Mt Washington and as is usual for us, couldn't. We're map and trail description-impaired. We barged up one trail and another and decided that Iron Horse Trail was just fine, thank you very much. Iron Horse is an old train bed that stretches for 18 miles up in the Cascades. It's near the highway but so high up in the mountains, cut across by many rushing streams and the wildflowers are all about and Felix the dog chased the ball so much he is having a lie down as we speak. The only other travelers we saw were mountain bikers so we're inspired to bring our bikes next time.
It rained and the sun came out and it rained again. We talked about dancing and going to Cuba versus Cambodia, food, death, our mothers, our therapists, Buddhism and books. Always books. And the film festival.
I love Holly. She swooned when she saw a potty on the trail that was pristine. It even had toilet paper and hand sanitizer.
Coming home along the I-90 corridor, surely one of the most beautiful drives in the world, giant peaks rising up all around and snow capped and streams and waterfalls off in the distance, we saw five eagles, three adults and two juveniles playing in the high winds, tumbling and rolling in the sky above us.
Today I feel gratitude for it all.