To the Slough

Turning 28

Happy birthday to my one and only fourth-born. You celebrate today on 2.22.22 with our annual outing to the great outdoors, and I can't imagine any place you'd rather be than among the waves and wind, the mountains and sky, in the heart of the Pacific Northwest. I watch you stomp across the slough in your rubber boots, impervious to the squelching mud and the near-freezing temperatures as you strategize this way and that, seeking the best route to the sandy strip of beach that lies far beyond the established paths. Patient and determined, you keep working until you figure out how to get exactly where you want to go. 

And I see that as no small metaphor for your life. Your path wanders, and even fades away among last year's windswept cat tails. The way forward is decidedly unclear. But with your goal ever clear in your mind, you forge ahead and make of your life something as glorious and free as the world you love to explore. And I am thankful to watch you find your way. 

* * * * *

Skagit Bay Estuary is a wide, low, and lonely place. On the west, a winter wetland guards access to the sea, green leafy sentries of summer turned brown have fallen across the muddy landscape; a few ancient and battered beach log projectiles lay tumbled a considerable distance from the open water, remnants of a ferocious long-ago storm. To the east, farm fields dot the countryside with irrigation channels weaving through and around to promise fresh water to the crops that  look out across this corner of the Pacific Ocean.

In between stands a dike wall. Tall, grassy, wide enough for a small car but designed for humans only. 

 

And dogs. 

A few white patches of snow remain from last night's flurries; today's freezing temperatures tempt them to hide among the grasses and live on into the new day. 

.

Our goal - or more precisely, my birthday girl's goal - is to traverse this mucky mess and end up at the shore line. 

And I am entirely game to take on that challenge. Until my feet sink time and time again into the wet mud, and my sneaker-clad feet begin to protest. My daughters are cleverly wearing boots. 

So it is determined that I will head back toward the dike and transit along the drier ground at its base while my daughters follow a similar route alongside the water's edge. 

Gracie is invited to join Team Waterfront but when she sees that I'm heading in a different direction, she digs her heels into her own little patch of muck, locks eyes with me, and refuses the offer. 

"Fine," I say. "You can come with me."

She happily complies, leaping over ruts and channels, adeptly trotting up and down beach logs, and showing off all of her outdoorsy chops. 

We have a wonderful time straggling along, wind whipping us to and fro. The only sounds we hear are the occasional squawks and cries of the local birds - great blue heron, snow goose, osprey, bald eagle - and our own squelching steps. 

There are no humans or man-made structures (except, I suppose, the dike) anywhere in sight. 

And in a moment that, when taken out of context, may sound macabre or at least profoundly melancholy, I thought to myself that this would be a beautiful and satisfying place to die. 

We reached the rendezvous spot first, Gracie and I, and pulled up alongside a big, bleached beach log just the right size for a rest. With that generous bit of windbreak, the pale sun warmed us. I took off my hat and gloves, and let the wind whip my hair in every direction. 

We heard them before we saw them. That same wind carried my daughters' voices up from the beach; Gracie cocked her head and listened intently. 

Soon, my fourth-born's brilliant yellow puffer popped into view and we watched them slowly slog through the marshy landscape straight toward us. Gracie was delighted to see them coming, but waited at my side as they approached. Her patience was rewarded with a few treats hidden away in my pocket. 

We swapped stories about our adventures, and my fourth-born allowed that she'd really like to approach the water from a different angle, hoping to land on the smooth and sandy section of beach that she saw but could not quite reach from her first attempt.

My feet still dripping, I allowed that Gracie and I would be content to hike the dike wall and view their progress from that vantage point. 

So off we all went. 

Gracie and I spent the rest of the sunny winter afternoon frisking along on our grassy causeway. We stopped now and then to watch the birds sail by, to pull long brambles out of her fur, to feel the wind in our faces. To breathe in deep and feel fully alive. 

When the day was done, we met at the car, all our cheeks bright pink, then drove home for birthday dinner and peach pie. 

And that night we all had a very good sleep.