Sunday, Mark and I ditched The Child -- or was that the other way around? -- and took a hike to Indigo Springs, which is part of the headwaters of the Middle Fork of the Willamette River.
The spring isn't the single source of the river, which I'm guessing is a little ways up-stream, but is one of several springs and sources.
Mark followed the directions from a Bill Sullivan guide book, and about ninety minutes later we were pulling into a cute little campsite at Indigo Springs.
There's a very short loop around the springs. The top is a five foot long bridge over a stream bed which was dry when we were there, but I expect is a major drainage during the rainy season. Right underneath the bridge, water seeps up from the ground. A little further downstream, more water gushes out from between fir roots.
The whole place wove a sylvan enchantment. Being there reminded me of the public ritual Starhawk led about sixteen years ago, where the god was called as the Willamette River. The springs rejuvenated Mark, which was a pleasure to be present for.
We attempted to follow an old wagon trial, but it soon became lost in the underbrush, so we opted to take a more robust trail along the Middle Fork's current.
We crossed the road and struck the trail along the river. Every so often we'd cross a contributing brook splashing down from a convert, or the seeping flow from of a bank-side spring. We were looking for Chuckle Spring, but we were unsure which tributary it was.
We saw ground squirrels, and some very small birds, and a slug. All the other animals remained unseen. Other than one or two folks sitting at various camp sites, we saw no other humans.
The north(?) side of the river we hiked along was verdant. We saw lots of Oregon grape; firs, cedars, vine maples, and the occasional oak. Moss coated the basalt rocks, roots, and fallen trees. We found something that Mark called an orchid, and every now and then we encountered a leafy lichen growth.
Along the other side the blackened trunks of cedars showed where previous years' fires had burnt the forest.
Along the way back, we stopped at Boulder Creek to take a closer look at what Mark called a fire tanker refill station. It looked like a pipe which had been sunk into the creek farther upstream, but I couldn't see the actual water collection site. There was a valve which was tempting to pull, but the whole construction looked old -- like a forgotten piece from a "Thomas the Tank Engine" set -- and I didn't want to risk having it get stuck on and inundating the road.
On the way home, we took selfies of ourselves eating ice cream and sent them to The Child (we had attempted to bribe him onto the hike earlier, but he declined).
Saturday morning, the minor cold I contracted from The Child's school manifested as a low grade fever. I did not go to the gym.... I spent most of the week end wrapped up like an Edwardian Ocean Liner Traveler, On the plus side, I managed to read some old Sheri S Tepper, and Mercedes Lackey -- mostly for pleasure, partially to look at novel structure.
I also managed to take the last bloom of the Azalea. Normally, it blooms in the spring, but it decided to push out one last one this week.
I arose a little earlier than usual and stumbled out. Orion was high and clear in the sky, but the moon and Regulus were behind some foggy haze. I stumbled back inside and returned with my camera to the back deck. Without the remote. And took some pictures. This resulted in jiggly photos of the moon and double-exposed images of Regulus.
Friday I had to attend to some family business, which meant that I went to the gym on Saturday and did the regular routine (OK, I didn't do the Roman Chair curls because I was feeling a little tired). 
As we were leaving for a day trip, Smokey became concerned that we were Leaving Forever. He paced back and forth in front of the car making squeaky meows and looking at Mark. So... Mark lied down on the street and Smokey groomed him. Three minutes later, a much more happy Smokey let us drive to Corvallis, where we celebrated my mother's birthday.
On the writing front, I managed to slip some editing in during the family business. I'm also keeping my fingers crossed for good news from a market that's short-listed one of my stories; we'll see if it beats the competition and is published.
At the MET, in the Assyrian wing, they have guardian lamassu on display. If I could figure out where to put them, I would like some at our house. I think they'd be a bit much for the front entrance, but maybe in the back yard. I am not sure if Mark would be up for it, though.
In the same hall are vulture-headed spirts vogueing. Sure, they might be tending to a tree, but it's hard not to imagine them strutting down a runway as they show off their purses, arm-bands, and wrist-watches. 
I'm not sure what they're doing with the pine-cones. (Reads https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/322613 ). Oh. Okay; the purses may be buckets filled with holy water, and the pine-cones are referred to as "purifiers" and may be used to sprinkle holy water on people or things. 
I like their wings. These guys look a little scarier than the lamassu, mostly because they have beaks for faces. I like their art-deco calf and forearm muscles. The way that the artists have carved them shows off their masculine strength without making them overtly sexual (contrasting with some depictions of Hercules or Prometheus). 
I should ask Mark what he would think of these guys in the garden or maybe along the front porch... Perhaps we could paint their likenesses along the walls of our little interior square hall just off of the living room area. (Somehow, I think if any images were to go up in that hall -- and I'm not sure where exactly they'd go -- Mark would be more up for photographs of our family members.)
Mark followed the directions from a Bill Sullivan guide book, and about ninety minutes later we were pulling into a cute little campsite at Indigo Springs. 
There's a very short loop around the springs. The top is a five foot long bridge over a stream bed which was dry when we were there, but I expect is a major drainage during the rainy season. Right underneath the bridge, water seeps up from the ground. A little further downstream, more water gushes out from between fir roots. 
The whole place wove a sylvan enchantment. Being there reminded me of the public ritual Starhawk led about sixteen years ago, where the god was called as the Willamette River. The springs rejuvenated Mark, which was a pleasure to be present for. 
We attempted to follow an old wagon trial, but it soon became lost in the underbrush, so we opted to take a more robust trail along the Middle Fork's current. 
We crossed the road and struck the trail along the river. Every so often we'd cross a contributing brook splashing down from a convert, or the seeping flow from of a bank-side spring. We were looking for Chuckle Spring, but we were unsure which tributary it was. 
We saw ground squirrels, and some very small birds, and a slug. All the other animals remained unseen. Other than one or two folks sitting at various camp sites, we saw no other humans.
Along the other side the blackened trunks of cedars showed where previous years' fires had burnt the forest. 
Along the way back, we stopped at Boulder Creek to take a closer look at what Mark called a fire tanker refill station. It looked like a pipe which had been sunk into the creek farther upstream, but I couldn't see the actual water collection site. There was a valve which was tempting to pull, but the whole construction looked old -- like a forgotten piece from a "Thomas the Tank Engine" set -- and I didn't want to risk having it get stuck on and inundating the road.
On the way home, we took selfies of ourselves eating ice cream and sent them to The Child (we had attempted to bribe him onto the hike earlier, but he declined). 
