It was getting too cold to camp, but we did anyway. As we approached the water, two giant sentinels stood watch over the Juan de Fuca. Bare trunks, devoid of branches and greenery, bark stitched with thin scales, towered upward in a straight line. Sitka spruce live in a narrow band along the ocean, tolerating saturated soils and salt spray. There are few such old giants left.
The next day, returning from a hike Shabbat afternoon, the time of ra’ava d’ra’avin, desire of all desires, a tune came to me, the Juan the Fuca nigun. You told me it was lovely. But we were soon distracted by a mother bear and cubs turning over driftwood and scampering amongst the logs, and the tune slipped my mind, back to wherever it had come from. So I write this instead and hope that one day I will receive a new Juan de Fuca nigun.
