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When I got to work around noon the parking lot was curiously empty. I speculated as to why this would be, but a glance through the windows of the building as I pedalled through the parking lot removed any doubt: the power was out.
A worker dropped a wrench into an electric box and not only fried the box, but blew some big transformer somewhere. There's a chance the power won't be back until next week sometime. They sent everybody home. I stayed for a couple of hours and checked on some jobs in the computer room where the backup generator keeps the essential infrastructure up and running.
This time of year I don't usually get to see much on my ride home since it gets dark about 4:30. It was nice today to be able to look around off the trail and see through the now leafless trees deep into the woods.
Most of my commute route is along a paved recreational trail through an area along Issaquah Creek that's been replanted with native plants. I actually helped with the planting one time and had a strange experience.
I was with two friends and their young son, David. We were shovelling dirt around a newly-planted fir tree. David and I were both on our hands and knees moving dirt with small trowels. David was humming or singing to himself in a rhythmic pattern that made me think of native American chanting.
I started singing along and turned it into a playful imitation of a chant. But it came out sounding more real than I thought I was capable of. I only did it for a few seconds before stopping.
David was looking at me sort of startled and maybe a little offended that I had intruded into his song. His parents were looking at me like I was nuts. I just shook my head and smiled like it was a joke and we all went back to our digging.
I don't honestly think that David and I were channeling the spirits of the ancient indigenous peoples who might very well have lived and worked on that spot a stone's throw from a salmon spawning stream. It's much more likely that it was just me being a little weirder than the occasion called for.
Still, I remember that moment each time I ride through that area. I often see crows congregating near by and I think of Charles de Lint's stories and I wonder.
Today, with time on my hands, I parked my bike by the trail and walked through the woods where we were planting that day years ago. I didn't find the exact spot, and I didn't feel any inclination to sing. The only sound was the rushing of the traffic on I-90. I wandered through the trees and brush for a while, took a few pictures, and went on home.
A worker dropped a wrench into an electric box and not only fried the box, but blew some big transformer somewhere. There's a chance the power won't be back until next week sometime. They sent everybody home. I stayed for a couple of hours and checked on some jobs in the computer room where the backup generator keeps the essential infrastructure up and running.
This time of year I don't usually get to see much on my ride home since it gets dark about 4:30. It was nice today to be able to look around off the trail and see through the now leafless trees deep into the woods.
Most of my commute route is along a paved recreational trail through an area along Issaquah Creek that's been replanted with native plants. I actually helped with the planting one time and had a strange experience.
I was with two friends and their young son, David. We were shovelling dirt around a newly-planted fir tree. David and I were both on our hands and knees moving dirt with small trowels. David was humming or singing to himself in a rhythmic pattern that made me think of native American chanting.
I started singing along and turned it into a playful imitation of a chant. But it came out sounding more real than I thought I was capable of. I only did it for a few seconds before stopping.
David was looking at me sort of startled and maybe a little offended that I had intruded into his song. His parents were looking at me like I was nuts. I just shook my head and smiled like it was a joke and we all went back to our digging.
I don't honestly think that David and I were channeling the spirits of the ancient indigenous peoples who might very well have lived and worked on that spot a stone's throw from a salmon spawning stream. It's much more likely that it was just me being a little weirder than the occasion called for.
Still, I remember that moment each time I ride through that area. I often see crows congregating near by and I think of Charles de Lint's stories and I wonder.
Today, with time on my hands, I parked my bike by the trail and walked through the woods where we were planting that day years ago. I didn't find the exact spot, and I didn't feel any inclination to sing. The only sound was the rushing of the traffic on I-90. I wandered through the trees and brush for a while, took a few pictures, and went on home.
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