In the cramped sleeping bunk of an old milk truck, at 1AM, I fumble around in the dark for my phone, so I can turn up the white noise to mask the ringing in my ears. Somehow, even after riding nearly 100 hard, hard miles to get to this hot springs resort, eating a big dinner, meditating in a hobbit hut, and reading poetry at dusk, I can’t sleep. We’re three days into a ride that is kicking my ass, and sleep should be the easiest thing I do all day. I take deep breaths, longer on exhale, and I count through endless sets of 10. I tell myself that even if I’m not asleep, this is some kind of rest. Why are my ears ringing, anyways? No, don’t think about that. Too many new anxious questions. I drift in and out of consciousness, getting just enough sleep to make me human in the early morning.

I walk down to a private hot spring tub, I begin filling the tub with steaming mineral water, and I strip down in the cold morning. It feels great to wear nothing but cold air. I put one toe in the hot water swirling in the bottom of the tub, then one foot, and it’s so painfully hot that I think maybe this is impossible. But it’s not. I keep easing myself in a millimeter at a time. Eventually I’m fully reclined in the tub, watching clouds of steam waft up into the tree canopy. My knees poke up out of the water, smooth tan islands in a boiling sea. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into a half hour. The water leaks around the plug down the drain, so I turn a knob and invite in more hot water. All my physical pain, anxiety, the ringing in my ears, my day job, it’s all on hold - gone but not forgotten. I let the moment stretch out into infinity. 

After breakfast we roll out into a surprisingly hot, exposed climb, and then we’re paid back with many more miles of fast descending down to the Clackamas river drainage. We stop for a snack at a placid spot along the river, where I once saw hundreds of silvery salmon die after spawning, their lives fulfilled. Massive mossy green boulders line the river like stone elephants laying along the shore. As I write this, I know that spot is on fire. And so too the trail above it burns. There is a long section of that trail where you’re ripping down a tiny stripe of clear dirt through an emerald lichen carpet that feels thousands of feet long. Even in deep summers, this area was defiantly lush, being the shady north aspect of Rhododendron Ridge. Things are changing so fast now. This country. The countryside itself. We can rebuild trails but the lushness is gone for a long time. The riding season is compressed. Everything is more urgent. It’s never felt harder to be present, but it’s never been more important to be present. When I look for things I can actually control, I know I can savor the unburnt lushness when I find it. A snack with a friend. Our feet in a cool creek. The world is full of difficulties, some I choose, some that choose me, and I don’t have to go through any of it alone.