Songs & Strings Tour Journal

Autumn 2002, West Coast
Michael DeLalla & Andrew McKnight

November 2, 2002:

Woke up at the Griffiths' feeling pretty rejuvenated by the Marysville concert the night before. Great crowd, nice performing space, and a show by Andrew and me that began to take on that end-of-tour pang, where one feels the end is near for a job we both love as strongly as the anticipation of returning home. The last couple of shows on a tour usually instill that in me, as well a heightened sense of an almost irreverent, no-holds-barred approach to the music. Thankfully, none were hurt.

Today is our last day off. After retrieving laundry--catch-as-catch-can while on the road, this time at the Griffiths--we decided to take advantage of rare blue Washington November skies and head back to Rainier. We thought we'd enter through the Paradise, or South, side this time, letting the roads guide us as far as they were open. Luck strikes again: the roads were clear.

I've seen a lot of the highest peaks in North America, with Alaska's Denali being the most impressive in terms of sheer height. You don't know what 20,000 feet "is" until you see Denali. Rainier is in some ways more imposing, its 14,000 feet so immediate, touchable. Denali maintains its majesty at great distance and removal of all but the heartiest of hikers and climbers. Rainier is intimate, inviting one to walk its shoulders with some ease and to climb it if one has the expertise. I don't. But I appreciated the invitation.

The initial trek crosses my acclimatization threshold that became so apparent to me when hiking in New Mexico's Sandias Mountains. At about 5800-6000 feet, my Eustachean tubes sound the alarm, the sharp pain meeting somewhere in the middle of my head. Laugh, you seasoned trekkers, but there it is. After some time, my lungs decided to cooperate under a restructured contract that called for a bit less oxygen. Strike averted.

I wanted to see the glacier's calving, where bits and pieces--very large bits and pieces--fall off. We'd hear the thunderous crash of snow on snow, but of course, by the time the sound reached us, the fall had happened. Like starlight that reaches us so long after the star has actually flamed out. We've talked about living in the moment a lot on this tour. Perhaps, I want to live in two moments at once. Alas, the best we could do is to see the rise of powder like smoke from cannonade. Seeing, not-seeing.

The light at this latitude this time of year is amazing. I've been further North a few times, but never this late in the year. Factor in the altitude at which we were hiking, and the late afternoon sun was eerily shoulder-high. A strange new thing, looking the sun in the eye. I still blinked first.

The descent found me a little sad--with tomorrow being the last show I knew this was our last hike. This tour has been a lot like a mountain trek--climbs, a valley or two, plateaus on which we catch our breath, spectacular vistas, and the surprise of kinship with the fellow traveller met along the way. Home, soon.

Michael