Coyotes and Chinook

The air was dark and thick. The breath of city machines had exasperated my lungs. "Look!" My friends pointed. I felt prickles of humbling fear and respect travel down my spine as I counted silhouettes, forgetting that our car might incur a parking ticket. One, two... three four five... six? Coyotes crouched low between beams of streetlamp light, slipping away with each gust of calm air. In the warmth of the California night, I was reminded of a Yakama tribe tale -- the story of the two winds.

~

The winding rivers of the Colombian Plateau are said to freeze over when the Walla Walla Brothers cause chilling winds to blow from the northeast. In response, the Chinook Brothers call warm air from the southwest to temper the cold. Long ago, the two groups entered a fierce competition with each other, causing floods that destroyed the river folks' villages. However, Coyote intervened. Though he was cunning and an opportunist, he cared for the humans. Coyote picked off those who were weak from battle until only two were left. He forced the brothers to cease their war, suggesting that the Walla Walla blow less severely, and that the Chinook should only blow harshly during the night. And with that, Coyote gave the people a fair and tolerable climate.

~

Tolerable climate indeed. 55 degrees on a night in December! Thanks Coyote. I continued up with my two friends. They stopped at what we dubbed the "make out point," but I stole away in the moonlight, higher towards the glowing structure overlooking the city. Every step scraped at silt, piercing the silence of the night. As I grew closer, I noticed a balcony suspended about ten feet off the ground. I leaped up and pulled myself up to face a guardrail, lodging myself in a concrete nook. After shimmying up, I safely hopped the railing, which brought me to an area with "Staff Members Only" signs all around. Not a single sentry, cricket, or snake stirred in the shadows. The stillness of the moment put me elsewhere.

~

I thought of a time two weeks ago with my roommate, Matt. At the Connelly Creek bridge crossing, a woman stopped us and nodded in the direction of two adult salmon, slowly waving their bodies in the current. I stood in admiration, and dwelled on the feeling even though we continued on. I turned to Matt and said, "That was beautiful." "Yeah," his inflection expressed disagreement. Indeed, their skin appeared a muddy green in the water, and was torn with evident signs of struggle. But that wasn't the point. It was the absence of grace, and the grit of their determination that was attractive to me.

~

I took to heart the words of two bicycle tourists that I recently met. They were members of a self-proclaimed club called The Salmons. Being a Salmon meant to go against the current; to take the hardest path possible no matter the odds. It was not about making things harder than they should be. It was about making things harder because they can be.

A handful of years ago, I wanted to experience what it was like to live on $2.50 a day while also traveling by bike. On the third day, I distinctly remember climbing up Cayuse and Chinook Passes -- three grueling hours of gravity tugging at my 75 pound setup and 140 pound flesh. My sustenance for those three hours was a cheese with peanut butter cracker every half hour. Needless to say, I was on the verge of collapse by the end. With the sun low, it was time to find shelter in the Mount Rainier wilderness on foot. As I was readying my supplies, I was approached by a group of women who graciously offered me cookies and beer (the two greatest things that can be offered next to snuggles and cupcakes). As I sat on the tailgate of these women's truck, they asked what possessed me to do such a thing. "Because I can."

~

I gazed down at the grid engulfed by smog. It was a tamable and ugly beast. So harmless at this distance. In every linear vein was a stream of gleaming red and yellow, offset by the occasional flicker of red and blue. I thought of all the salmon and non-salmon; of the bears that clawed at those that dared to leap. What twinkles in this organism of concrete and glass were the weak and skin-torn salmon? It was impossible to tell at this distance, though I wanted to ruminate until daybreak.

The quiet was punctuated by the faintest of comforting warmth moving over my skin. In the corner of my eye, a watchful coyote crept in the brush.