Isabella Bird Miscellany

bleached out rocks, pine needles and crunch gravel At last, (sounds like the end instead of the beginning of a story, or a crooned love song) my man and I were able to walk the labyrinth on Brosterhaus Road.  The first time we visited, it was winter; being partially covered with left-over snow, sections of the path were obscured.  What struck me at the time was the labyrinth was set in a prayer garden.  Peeking from the snow were benches, shrubs, a water feature of sorts and a rugged cross made of gnarled juniper. Returning today, everything was revealed in brilliant sunshine punctuated by the ever-present cold Central Oregon spring wind.  I swear it must blow directly across the ice fields on the mountains before biting exposed cheeks. Walking, I found it hard to concentrate and clear my mind.  I deliberately slowed my already slow pace in an attempt at mindfulness, listening to my steps on the finely crushed gravel and the wind swirling through the pines.  O

It was a gorgeous day to fly.   The skies were clear, the mountains in crisp attire thanks to a fresh coat of snow.   Funny how even a dust of white defines the terrain, etching every crevice with detail.   I revel in the perspective stock-piled from flying above.   Above the city.   Above the rivers and forests and fields.   Above the mountains; peeking down at life below. The seat I had blocked my view.  Instead, I concentrated on the intricacies of the wing with its flaps, ailerons and other things that go up and down, controlling functions.  Peering over the wing, a craggy mountain sat like a big fat vanilla ice cream cone with a bite taken out of the top.  You half expect the frozen concoction to start dribbling down your hand, only to be caught by a paper napkin.  But, it’s a mountain full of magnificence, rather than a childhood treat. Rivers, muddy from spring rains snaked  their way through wet fields, showing green sprigs and sprouts; some planted, some ti