Second Spring

A break in the grey canopy of heaven
Slanting light the colour and texture of honey
Dripping and pooling in the folds of waterlogged earth
Trails littered with leaves blown wildly
By autumns first big storms

After two weeks of wind, rain, worry
The faint autumn sun seems like an inferno
And I am running in shorts in defiance
Of the chill that lingers in the afternoon air.

Up and over and around Mount Doug, again
Pounding down trails so familiar they seem like family
Old friends that time does not trouble
Feet, this is your domain
Guide me through falls paradox

And then, where the slopes are open, rocky
And below, a farmers field makes for pastoral charm,
The Garry oaks cling to stone as children to a parents sleeve
Now adorned with acid green leaves
But this is November, friends, not May

It seems like magic, these vestiges of a forgotten season
Appearing now when it seems as if all the future held
Was darkening skies, earthbound torrents, bluster
Fits that bend bows, whipped waves into a fury

The cause, experts say, is the Oak leak Pyhlloxeran, a pest
That stripped these trees of leaves during summer past
Now a second spring for these twisted sentinels comes
A fleeting chance that will pass in a few weeks, a month
Reminds me that from any darkness a light can emerge.

Running Rain

Now it’s the dark season again.

I fear the fall.

Last September I stumbled into a ditch and couldn’t get myself out for 9 months. Long after the sun had reappeared and the oaks leafed-out and the Ocean Spray festooned my favourite trails with pearl white drapery, I lay in the muck.

Of course, there was more at work than mere weather.

The depression I felt was part of a cycle I’ve experienced most of my life. Runs in the family. But last autumn was different. Last autumn made me pay attention at last.

So I made changes. Big changes.

But now it is fall once again.

I am running in the rain, once again. My favourite place to run is Victoria’s Mount Doug park. It’s a rainforest oasis nestled along the shore of the Straight of Jaun de Fuca in the north end of the city (Saanich, really). The hill rises some 800 feet above the adjacent sea, and is cloaked in dense red cedar, Douglas fir and big leaf maple forests, Gary oak meadows and bald, rocky summits. Since moving to Victoria I’ve run up and over these domes hundreds of times.

In the winter the rocky slopes become slick, so on the wettest of days I have to be content to circle the mountain’s base. In places the trails become creeks, so I splash my way up and down these waterways, jumping up tiny water falls, careening over rock and root pathways. In the darkness of autumn the dense woods can be chocked with mist. The air entering my lungs is thick. The forest appears in layers out of the fog, trees and under story being revealed as curtains of mist are pulled back like screens where players wait until their entrance is called for.

I find it hard to run in this weather.

The rain is invigorating, and I don’t mind getting wet. You can’t mind getting wet if you want to run in the rainforest. But the autumn sky, slate grey when it can be seen at all, presses down on me. I feel like each step is leaden. It’s a mental effort to keep going somedays.

I splash across Douglas Creek, calf deep, looking for spawning Salmon. Up the slick hillside, roots as handholds. This is what cross country running is all about. And I remember that in the summer, when I felt as though I could fly, I would soften my decent along the treacherous, rocky slopes by inviting my body to flow as if it were water sluicing down a spill way.

So I must remember this now.

I am water. I am this rain that pounds on my capped head from the gunmetal sky. I am not a man, running for my life, through darkening woods. I am the rain itself, in the form of a man, moving heavily, but still moving, among rains myriad other incarnations – red cedar, sword fern, Oregon grape. Salmon. I am rain, running. And I can keep on running remembering this certainty.