Nature's art

Yesterday afternoon, I returned to Sea-Tac Airport -- a crowded scene of organized chaos.  The same scene I had left behind early Tuesday morning.

But sandwiched between those two airport scenes, I had existed in a totally different world.  Not only a different world, but a different time.  Seemingly, a rural life from the 1940s or 50s.

I've discussed my sister's Idaho home in past posts, in past years.  She and Andy, together with their son, live nine miles west of  the tiny town of Challis, abutting the Salmon-Challis National Forest.  Literally abutting -- from the window of my guest bedroom, I could read a sign indicating the National Forest border.  They live on fifty acres, fifty acres of greenery, surrounded by the dry, brown hills of late summer.  Two creeks pass across their property, one at present dammed by a family of industrious beavers to form a broad, peaceful pond.

A network of trails pass through groves of deciduous and coniferous trees.  At various strategic points, they have set benches and chairs for passers-by -- mainly themselves -- to sit, to ponder, to admire the scenery.

And the scenery is beautiful.  

But many scenes are beautiful, including parks near my own Seattle home.  What  is miraculous in this world near Challis is the quiet, the isolation, the sense of peace.  The road from Challis, after passing my sister's house, plunges almost immediately into the National Forest.  Little traffic from the "city" (population 1,081), nine miles distant, reaches this far.  There are neighbors, yes. Two.   From certain angles, you can see their houses, often through gaps in the forest.

But the more noticeable neighbors are the birds.  And the animals -- deer, beavers, squirrels.  And the family's own domestic animals -- two dogs (four while I was visiting -- they were caring for two dogs belonging to friends), one cat, five horses.  There also used to be twenty-five pet rats, but they came to a sad ending. 

But I'm giving you bare facts and data.  What I want to give you is a sense of feeling.  The feeling that at any time of the day, you can walk out of the house and stare off in any direction -- seeing a world unchanged not only from the 1940s, but, to a large extent, unchanged from time immemorial.  You can watch the sun rise or set behind nearby hills.  You can watch the shadows lengthen.  You can study the different colors presented by different times of day.

If one were an artist, which I'm decidedly not, he could paint a million canvases of the same scene, each

unique.  Like Monet, painting Rouen Cathedral or Westminster Bridge.

Not being an artist leaves me frustrated.  I can paint only with my eyes, on the canvas of my brain.  Which is like painting a masterpiece in disappearing ink on fragile newsprint.

But while the details may fade, my memory of my emotional reaction to those details remains.  And will draw me back for future visits.