Cape Perpetua Campground

I’m sitting in front of a bonfire that I’ve successfully kept going for over an hour. Keeper of the flame. Brigid, Irish goddess of fire. Amataratsu, Japanese sun goddess. Fire Master—that one was Audrey’s idea. New PMV name.

At 5:30 am (exactly, by my alarm clock), I woke from a dream about going on a hiking and camping trip. It wasn’t only Audrey and me as we’re doing in real life, but a bunch of mutual friends/aquaintances. 

Snap, crackle, pop goes the bonfire.

The part of the dream that I vividly remembered (and this is common) was the last few minutes. Or was it more than one minute? Perhaps not. We were hiking in utter pitch darkness.

Cracking fire in front of me; babbling, roaring brook behind me.

In the dream, even the moon was nonexistent. You’d think we occupied a windowless room at night with the lights out and the door closed, or perhaps a room that had no door. That’s how dark it was. But we kept walking.

I sensed a forest edge forming a wall on our left. I had a crank flashlight in my right hand, and I pushed its button numerous times. With each second that the flashlight glowed, we saw the straight row of trees forming the edge of the forest. Sand was beneath our feet. Also, in the brief spurts of light, I saw an ocean straight ahead of us, with the water gently lapping, lapping, in small waves. I think I heard them, but that was more than twelve hours ago.

I just noticed lots of truly white ash underneath the burning logs. I forgot the ash can be so white. It’s reminiscent of the white ash that naked saddhus in Varanasi, India, smear all over their bodies. It makes them look pale. I wonder where they get the ash. Cremation grounds? Chai stand fires? The fires from restaurants or homes? Perhaps Hindus bring them. Perhaps they bring the ashes from home or from their restaurants and give them, like offerings, to the saddhus. Perhaps they place the ashes in terra cotta bowls or jugs and bring them to the ghats where the saddhus congregate. Perhaps it’s like merit in Tibetan Buddhism—giving things to monks and nuns (especially to high-ranking monks such as the Dalai Lama) and improving their karma thereby.

Birds are twittering in treetops from the other side of the road. The fire still crackles and pops. The brook still babbles.

After walking to the water faucet on a wooden pole by the road, and washing dishes there, and walking back to sit before the fire, I realized that camping is like living in a slum in India. You’ve got the public water pump that you share with neighbors; you’ve got a tent’ and you’ve got an open fire for cooking and for keeping warm. Wow. Americans do this for fun, and Indians do it out of necessity.

I remember, in India, people gathered around fires at night and in the early morning. They were wrapped in big shawls or blankets, and I thought they looked like Gypsies. Later, on the same pilgrimage, I overheard one of my fellow travelers saying that Gypsies came from India. For that matter, street musicians (especially with the harmonium) looked to me like Gypsies, too.

Foxglove: very long cup-like purple flower—many cups or cornucopias hanging together in a long, tall string. They grow wild… and in profusion here at the side of the road leading to our campground. Woods occupy one side of the road, and the camp sites the other.

It’s drizzling again for the second time—or at least it was for a moment.

it’s been very pleasant sitting by the fire listening to it and to the brook. Earlier we also heard birds singing and crows cawing. I hope we hear owls tonight; I’m pretty sure I did hear one earlier, well before it got dark. It was faint and far away.

We’ll fall asleep listening to the babbling brook. It reminds me of when I had an attic room at a Swiss inn, and I listened to a little waterfall on the mountain behind the inn; I kept the skylight open all night.

Tomorrow we’ll explore Cape Perpetua—hopefully we’ll find Thor’s Well and such. Wonderful, magical place.