You can read Seattle, part one here.
I'm a bit of a cynic about weddings. Not about people deciding to formalise their union and announce it in a ritualised manner to their family and friends; but despite my best efforts I tend to feel removed from the action, watching a human ritual that I have little desire to be a part of but feel obliged to put on the outfit and say the right things and smile and cry because that's what you have to do. I believe that the intentions of the couple are genuine, their convictions true, but once you've layered on that the choice of venue, flowers, the colour of the bridesmaids' dresses, the specific type of lace in the bride's gown, the obsessing over this or that table setting, it all seems so utterly inauthentic that I feel as I do on a film set - move an inch to the left or the right and the illusion of reality falls apart; the narrow wooden beams keeping the whole thing upright visible. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. And I wonder why I don't get invited to more weddings.
Naomi's wedding, inevitably, was different. Set on the shore of the glacial Lake Crescent, surrounded by mountains of granite and pine at the Olympic Park Institute, it felt more like summer camp. Those of us who had chosen to stay the weekend there were shown to their cabins with an appropriately nature-y name, rooms of bunk beds and no blankets. Elsewhere the OPI had a large campfire area, a dining room and hall, and a large green lawn leading to the lakeshore itself. Naomi has always had a very down-to-earth, large family mentality - everyone mucking in to do their part.
We'd not seen each other in a couple of years so when I wandered blearily, post-hike tired into the hall where people were ironing tablecloths and stringing lights, the squeal she let out, after a perfectly timed beat of recognition, was worth the journey alone. It was Friday, and the evening's plan was, roughly: food, wine, campfire, singing, smores. I spent the evening meeting lots of new people, catching up with a few old friends, watching Naomi's previously theoretical family tree now brought to life in front of me, and trying to link siblings to children to cousins to parents to partners.
Pull out a guitar and if a crowd people forms around you singing Cash or Dylan - likely they're in Naomi's family. The ability to sing and play and hold a tune, this wasn't simply a shared gene, this was the stuff that transformed them from individuals scattered across the USA into a single tribe. I sang along as best I could, but their songs are not my songs, so I sat and enjoyed the heat of the fire, catching up with old friends, and the noise of this increasingly sloshed crowd. I made a few smores too - amazing that I'd managed to survive thirty years without eating one - roasted marshmallow, chocolate and sweet biscuit all combined into something far more than the sum of their parts.
Saturday morning - the day of the wedding. A lot of hangovers at the breakfast table. Already I was experiencing the bond forged over a campfire of story and song, a shared consumption of alcohol and the intensity of 'summer camp' friendships when it seems as if this group of people alone and uniquely can solve all problems, your own and the world's.
I had decided to squeeze in one more hike before the wedding took place in the early afternoon, and I had my sights set on Mt Storm King, which rose from the Lake bed from 500 feet to an eye-watering 4,500 feet in a few short miles. The peak was shrouded in mist. I loved the name, evocative as it was of myth and magic, and because the Storm King was the villain of one of my all-time favourite series of books - Tad William's Memory, Sorrow and Thorn. Still, I didn't want to be on an unknown hillside on my own - canvassing my new best friends, I convinced the possibly judgement impaired Cory to join me.
The walk started by sharing the very popular Meadow Falls trail, but within half a mile it veered off and up the mountain, always within a thick pine forest and devoid of people. We chatted, as much as two strangers can chat whilst trying to climb a mountain, when you thoughts go to hoping that you might catch your breath sometime. The payoff came slowly, revealing itself in glimpses through the trees as we gained altitude. We could spy the Lake below us, and a seemingly endless carpet of pine trees on the surrounding hills. I was fascinated by the sap coming off trees like the slowest spill in the world.
The trees thinned a little as we entered the mist that clung to the tops of the mountains, but we were still treated to a gut-wrenching view of the Lake that had us both making inarticulate sounds of admiration. The fact that we were on the edge of what felt like a sheer drop to the bottom also had something to do with it. A little further up and we saw a sign heralding that the trail was now unmaintained, hazardous and steep.
It was clear to both Cory and myself that we were unlikely to reach the top, but the trail was still walkable, so we decided to continue a little further on past the sign. Sure enough, we were on a ridge that fell away on both sides, even more shrouded in mist and fog, and increasingly having to use our hands to maintain balance. A few minutes up and the Storm King's peak was ahead, the ground becoming loose and a rope dangling down that presumably would help steady you on the final way up. It disappeared into the grey gloom above, and we both knew this was our turnaround point.
Cory, though not a regular experienced hiker, had had little trouble with the climb, especially as we had taken things at a fairly sensible pace. On the descent however, he revealed that he was part goat, sure footed and fast. I like to descend quickly on these trails, but I am not what you would call graceful, and I rarely have someone with me who wants to throw themselves down a mountain. We picked up pace and it developed into an all-out sprint down the switchbacks, leaping over roots, hanging onto trees to swing around the sharp corners. I pictured us running, missing a turn, and leaping off a cliff into the lake below. My legs, already tired from two intense days of walking, complained heavily. I knew I was going to pay dearly for it, but it was exhilarating. What took two hours to ascend we descended in twenty minutes - a record, surely.
I've become a little obsessed recently with the notion of artistic truth, realising that in order to approach it you need both courage and skill, to make the leap of committing to what you create, which I've failed to do. More than anything it's fear that's held me back with my creative pursuits; photography, writing. Realising this hasn't made it go away unfortunately, but I'm working on it. I've also tried to extend this thinking to the way in which I conduct myself in everyday life, to my professional and personal relationships. It doesn't mean that I say whatever's on my mind, it's not that kind of tactless honesty, but that I apply myself fully to being truthful in my actions, to see myself and my environment clearly. Be impeccable with your word, says the first of The Four Agreements, which returns to what I was struggling with at the beginning of this piece, to be authentic.
The wedding ceremony was going along fine, lovely in fact. All Naomi's sisters as bridesmaids to the left, and Aaron's had his groomsmen to the right. I don't really understand having all those people up there, but it made for a nice symmetry in the photographs. Naomi's mother was playing her guitar and singing, I don't remember what exactly, I knew it at the time. This was during a pause in the ceremony, and everyone was engaged in some private reverie; listening to Sally, watching Naomi, exchanging a word with their neighbour, or as in the case of the bridesmaids, standing trying not to cry. I heard Sally say 'everyone join in', and what had been a group of individuals was suddenly a united chorus. The bridesmaids went from stiff upright postures holding back tears, to backing singers singing together into their flowers as microphones, as if they had rehearsed this a thousand times. The guests sang too, the choir of the concert, with Naomi and Aaron the main duet. It was spontaneous, surprising and completely charming.
The next morning, russet mantle clad, I was walking to breakfast to the sound of someone playing the guitar and singing. I thought it was coming from Naomi and Aaron's cabin.
As it started to rain I went to investigate and found Rod by the lakeshore channeling Johnny Cash. I wished I knew the songs he was singing, the ones I'd been hearing all weekend. I wanted to join this tribe, partake in its rituals. Maybe I am not such a cynic after all.
to leave comments on this post, please do so at http://blog.juanluis.com
