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Feeling big and small on the west coast
Dec. 7th, 2004 03:15 pmIt was originally warm in the sunshine of the parking lot, but once I crossed under the wooden entry gate of Muir Woods the temperature dropped palpably. I breathed heavy clouds into the cold still air and looked up into the gargantuan trees.
I have never before felt so miniscule, like a tiny beetle scurrying about massive roots with what must seem like a useless agenda to living creatures as old as Charlemagne. My mother and brother walked briskly as they usually do and I would have to run occasionally to catch up.
An old man walked behind us, sometimes very close and sometimes far away. He was wearing a pair of dress khakis and he had a vest on. An odd vest with a million tiny pockets, it didn't look like a fishing vest but closer to something an archaeologist might wear but only when the people from National Geographic were coming to film. It likely wouldn't have seemed all that odd to me had he not zipped up the vest on the outside of a coat. The sleeves puffed out of the armholes as if it were some sort of armor.
To complete the look he had a fedora tipped jauntily to the left and he walked with cane in hand. It seemed to me that he used the cane less for assistance in walking but as an extension of his hand. He gestured wildly shuffling along talking mainly to himself.
I watched him secretly, curious as to if he might accidentally crack someone in the noggin with it or perhaps inadvertently goose a hiker that passed too closely.
( Read more... )
I have never before felt so miniscule, like a tiny beetle scurrying about massive roots with what must seem like a useless agenda to living creatures as old as Charlemagne. My mother and brother walked briskly as they usually do and I would have to run occasionally to catch up.
An old man walked behind us, sometimes very close and sometimes far away. He was wearing a pair of dress khakis and he had a vest on. An odd vest with a million tiny pockets, it didn't look like a fishing vest but closer to something an archaeologist might wear but only when the people from National Geographic were coming to film. It likely wouldn't have seemed all that odd to me had he not zipped up the vest on the outside of a coat. The sleeves puffed out of the armholes as if it were some sort of armor.
To complete the look he had a fedora tipped jauntily to the left and he walked with cane in hand. It seemed to me that he used the cane less for assistance in walking but as an extension of his hand. He gestured wildly shuffling along talking mainly to himself.
I watched him secretly, curious as to if he might accidentally crack someone in the noggin with it or perhaps inadvertently goose a hiker that passed too closely.
( Read more... )
