Logan sits quietly in the passenger’s seat, dazed with pain from a 10-hour tattoo, as I navigate the black, twisty roads of a midnight drive to Grants Pass. The full moon hangs close to mountains that cradle a dense fog, and I lean forward to glance at the dazzling spread of sky. In less than eight hours I’ll be eating a burger for breakfast before hiking Rainie Falls trail. My time in Oregon is ending, and this is my farewell: a rocky path that flanks the rolling Rogue River and three hours of separation from the person who calls me home.
The trailhead is bustling but soon gives way to twenty, thirty minutes of solitude, fertile ground for soliloquies softly spoken, heavy thoughts hushed by the roaring river and catapulting mountain streams. I bite my Camelbak tube and splash my face with the cold, glassy waters that tumble from sheer slopes. My steps are deliberate and quick. I want only to walk and walk and walk and walk, not to arrive at the falls but something greater, a destination that stretches endlessly from the salmon to the sea. I want only to walk, infinitely.
The path has no end. But the trail stops at the falls, which roar and spit and tempt a group of rafters as I wedge myself between two wet boulders. The rafters’ hesitation hurries them trailside, where they sip canned beer and strategize. In ten minutes they will bypass the falls, chase the currents that carry them swiftly and safely wherever they call home. I catch my breath at the trail’s narrow bends and watch. Even the life-vested dog seems to indulge in the getting out there between canyon walls, in chasing the placid waters of the wild.