Continuity
This afternoon, we are venturing out to hike our favorite loop trail along Paulina Creek. The waterway is named for a powerful chief of the Northern Paiute people who fought against colonization in the late 1800s. I offer an internal prayer for the indigenous people who still remain, and ask permission to walk mindfully upon their traditional lands. It is a small gesture in relation to the injustices these people continue to endure. May this walk along our sister river be dedicated to greater awareness.
The trailhead along the creek is close to home, so we do not have to endure a long drive to and from the trail, harshly framing our nature experience. I find vibrations of internal combustion and hum of tires on tarmac create a strange juxtaposition to a sojourn in wild lands. It takes only about thirty minutes to reach the trailhead on this unseasonably cool last day of June. Upon arriving, we extend our trekking poles, throw on our packs, and head out at a casual pace.
The speed of our walking is always dictated by the number of wildflowers in bloom, and this hike is no exception. I calculate a one-mile-per-hour pace is about right if we don’t want to miss seeing a particular splash of color. Sometimes we walk slower if it is a peak bloom. On this day, two species of penstemon are particularly abundant; their prolific lavender to purple blossoms contrast with the light sandy-cindery volcanic soil. Many other flowers are bestowing a show. We count 40 species in bloom on this trip.
One species in prolific display is one that does not photosynthesize. It gets most of its nutrition from a subterranean mycelium network of fungi. It also exudes a sticky substance that traps small insects which the plant dissolves with enzymes to extract nitrogen. Standing two to three feet tall, it shoots like an arrow out of the soil to mature as tight clusters of reddish-brown asparagus-like spears hosting numerous little nodding urn-shaped flowers or “drops.”
The plant is known by its common name, “pinedrops,” because it commonly grows in pine forests and once was thought to feed on the tree’s roots. Its scientific name, Pterospora andromedea, is quite a mouthful. The Latin translates to “winged seed that resembles Andromeda” (a similar-looking family of plants). Regardless of that translation and meaning, I prefer envisioning the Andromeda galaxy swirling with winged seed-stars. I don’t know why pinedrops is so abundant this year. Perhaps the subterranean fungi community upon which it depends is having a convention. I’d have to ask a mycologist.
Our attention is soon drawn away from the pinedrops-fungi dance by the rumbling call of water cascading down the rocky channel. We follow a well-worn side trail to a point overlooking a broad fan of liquid pouring over a large basalt formation, and we stop to soak in the experience of a waterfall. My mind settles into the sonic bath. Rivers of sound intermingle and course through my body, mirroring rivers of blood flowing through arteries and veins. I soon begin to distinguish the burble of small rivulets inside the roar of a roiling torrent; subtle and blatant voices of the same water.
All these sounds are framed by frequencies of light reflected in the color of companion wildflowers. Blossoms of brilliant red and yellow western columbine dance and nod along the banks; little marionettes guided through transparent strings by unseen hands. Flower and water, light and sound, become inseparable. Something happens to my mind, as it inhabits the juncture of two energies. I sense no difference, the frequencies interpenetrate, and I want to rest in between; to surrender thoughts into a spaciousness that does not divide experience.
Eventually, Tarn and I resume hiking up the trail to discover more of nature’s gifts—no, not more; a continuation. Each experience bleeds into the next. Another name for tantrayana is “the path of continuity.” I think the ancient tantric masters must have loved rivers and wildflowers…