The granite dome behind our cabin, which we fondly call “Gumdrop” — Mrs. Bread coined its name — was calling me to make a visit this morning, and I wanted to set out early and eat my break-fast on its slopes overlooking the lake. But because it was such a chilly morning (I know it got down to at least 27 in the night), I waited to venture forth until the sun rose well above the trees.
I’ve written about my dome excursions more than once here, and I debated whether even to mention today’s outing, but I’m doing it for my own memory’s sake. And maybe a few other people also enjoy multiple pictures of boulders and scree and rock in the shape of a river. Visits to Gumdrop always feature treats other than the granitic type: sublime views that make you feel you are on the top of the world.
This time I reversed the direction of my loop around the base and shoulders of this exfoliating hunk of rock, and headed east when I got near, then south, counterclockwise. Every few steps I took, the view changed, and the pointy domes across the lake would be hidden behind trees, and then come back into sight.
I would never try climbing to the top of Gumdrop by myself; once my late husband did that, and he fell coming down and got a big gash on his arm. When you fall on a dome, you fall on rock — that’s all there is, and you could easily be knocked unconscious, or worse. But when I walk around the sides of it, I can’t help climbing upward, because it doesn’t have a flat bottom like a gumdrop candy, and around Gumdrop Dome some of its rocky slopes are covered with soil and trees. Today on the side where I first approached, I reached the limit of what felt safe. This next picture I took from that spot.
Majesty is the word that came to mind as I was thrilling over the grand scenes before me, whichever way I looked. As I braced myself on the slant, and looked out across the still lake, I could not even hear rustling of trees, or any hammering from cabins down below. For two seconds, a fly buzzed, and was silent.
Many features of the landscape are physically large, and majestic that way. But the smallest succulent or infant pine tree is huge in its brave clinging to life, on a rock.
I sat with my back against one slab, and ate a protein bar, drank a little water. I was the only human on Gumdrop; a few ants passed by near my boots. The lake glittered down below. All was quiet.
When I got back to the cabin after a couple of hours, I was looking for that Annie Dillard quote about why she likes mountains better than creeks. But I found this one first, which is particularly about the kind of mountain I like:
No matter how sophisticated you may be,
a large granite mountain cannot be denied —
it speaks in silence to the very core of your being.
-Ansel Adams
Last week, I returned from Washington and my grandson’s wedding. On that travel day, before I left my Airbnb for the airport, I learned that a beloved sister in Christ, C., only 40 years old, had passed from this life after many years of suffering. It was arranged via texts while I was going through security at Sea-Tac that a friend of hers named Tia, who was coming from New York for the funeral, would stay at my house.
The repose of such a young wife and mother, who had been a bright light in the world, was hard to feel easy about, even though we were glad that her suffering was ended. Not a month before, we’d said good-bye to a man in his 80’s who also had been ill for a while, and who no doubt is happy to have finished his race; but he had found the Church and a wife late in life, and it wasn’t comfortable in his case, either, for her or for any of us to let go of him. Is any human death insignificant, that we who are left behind can be left unchanged?
Gladsome Lights 