The Trees Show The Shape Of The Wind

In the coastal winter rains of the northwest everything gets washed storm-clean and the next day the beaches shine silver and gray like new coins. Steam pours from the cliffs and their trees as the low sun meets the soaking ferns and mosses. There is a raw elemental power to it that makes it seem like the rough edge of the world, like a corner was torn off the continent somewhere along the line and never put back. Staggering, the scale and power here. Like the fact that there are bits of dinosaur bone up on the moon.

Amidst the violence of it all—the pounding surf, the soaking rains, the ceaseless wind—there is so much elegance and beauty. Driftwood worn smooth and tossed upon the high shore. Bald eagles taking flight from the high reaches of scraggly pines. Boulders drilled with perfect circles that enterprising clams have excavated and snugged themselves into.

Along one of these beaches sits a Sitka spruce called the Tree of Life. Like the clams it clings to anchor against the odds, hanging suspended in midair by the strength of roots which spiderweb across the an eroded gap in the cliffside. We approach the tree, clambering over driftwood logs the size of telephone poles. We try to take in the improbable majesty of it all and whatever answers it might provide over the whine of a drone and the laughter of cigarette smoking teenagers. Eventually they move off, the drone pilots and the rebel teens, and for a few minutes it is just us and the tree.

A sign reads: THE TREES SHOW THE SHAPE OF THE WIND. How could they not? Their springy, malleable flesh is no match for the steady howl that comes across the ocean. We retreat from the Tree of Life, and the wind, in the lee of a driftwood giant. We crack open a few beers, which seems like the right thing to do on a day when we are already drunk on winter sun. When the soul has been washed clean there is more room for a little vice.

I love my vices, truth be told. Especially when they feel communal. On trips like this last one to the coast I love mumbling “s’there coffee?” to whoever beats me to the kitchen that morning and filling up a steaming mug to take out into the cold forest air, which is a better hangover cure than any other invented by man. I don’t love the hangover itself but I love what it makes me appreciate, and I typically love whatever circumstances lead me to having it, which is almost the same thing. A few years ago Seattle got clobbered by a blizzard and most places shut down for a few days except the bars. With no work to be done—this was before the normalization of the dreaded Zoom Call—I holed up in an Irish pub where I was joined by a rotating cast of friends, and we wasted a good few days like that, drinking whiskey and eating pie and playing cards. I don’t have the constitution to live like that indefinitely, so it was good that the snow melted. But there’s something to be said for having vices that rise to the moment.

Of course there’s also plenty to be said for moderation, or even temperance. On the advice of my chipper nutritionist Julie I am trying to limit myself to sixteen ounces of coffee a day, and none after 12:00. (Caffeine apparently has a quarter-life of twelve hours, so if you’ve had a full afternoon cup your body is still riding it out by the time you get in bed. No wonder we’re all so tired.) Still, there are places on this planet—rugged coasts, crashing waters, high cliffs, ancient forests—that in my humble estimation require us to throw caution to the ample winds and open ourselves up to excess. The real trick is saving some up for moments like those.

Thanks, as always, for reading. I’ll talk to you next week.

-Chuck

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