I didn't know about this park below Beacon Rock, but I'm glad I've wandered here. It is given me to wander. When I was nine, I visited my aunt and uncle's beach cabin. Alone, I searched the driftwood-littered shore, striated with slivers of ocean water, while the tide sought fissures in the sand and streambeds behind logs. It was a messy, sea-weedy, long cold beach on a Washington peninsula, and to my happy, little-girl greed, I found shells, shiny rocks, and things to take home.Set off on a writing field trip. Write what blows by you on the summer wind.
When I don't wander, I lose the wind.
It's here, blowing over the Columbia River in this pocket of shore. There are apple orchards upriver. Trees and outcroppings of volcanic rock loom over me. The wind follows its muse.
A cloud stalks a bluff of rock, stealthy, thinking I won't notice. The cloud is blue gray and smokey, but holey where true blue shines through.
Writing Field Trips
In summertime, sometimes, I'll drive a drive, off into the country, sit myself down beside water or beneath trees and write whatever my surroundings inspire me to write. Here's an excerpt from a journaled adventure on this day a couple of Julys ago...