Ron Paul, Don’t Pull, and the Lunar Eclipse

Ron Paul, Don’t Pull, and the Lunar Eclipse
Winthrop, Washington (while on vacation)
2/21/08

I had to squint to look at the moon tonight. Like a spotlight only it didn’t blind me. Instead, it illuminated everything. Full and white. A hole in the sky. Light streaming through a ripped black canvas.

We arrived yesterday early afternoon. It’s been three years since we were last here, here being Winthrop east of the Cascades at the southern end of the Methow Valley. The drive was relatively easy. Despite the depth of snow on the roadside, the highways were bare and dry all the way into town allowing us to really pay attention to the landscape instead of the treacherous driving conditions we’d experienced in the past.

Eastern Washington is a stark contrast to Western Washington. Firs give way to pine trees; dense forests give way to organized linear orchards. On the west side, line of sight is limited and layered with green. On the east side, you can see for miles and most of what you see is brown. Whitewater rivers flow off the Cascades to become wide, flat, meandering waters that often look like lakes they move so slowly.

While we prefer the west side to the east, the snow to the north is crisp and dry, perfect for cross-country skiing and so, when we can, we like to escape the mountainous ruggedness of the west side and play in the valleys of the east.

The east side is also much more conservative than the west. Often, liberal Democrats win elections by earning a majority of votes from Seattle (located on the west side), obliterating any hope of democracy for the voters from the east side who are far more conservative. This was evident as we wound are way up the east side.

“Ron Paul,” I said to Ann pointing out the first political sign we’d seen. “Interesting,” was her only response. And then again, a sign stuck into a snow bank on the side of the road. “Ron Paul,” I said again to which Ann “hummphed” and then continued scanning the scenery for hawks and deer.

By the time we reached Winthrop, we’d counted at least 20 Ron Paul signs and soon began to speculate as to his appeal.

“Freedom from government interference,” I postulated.

“But why?” Ann pondered. “What would the government care about this wide expanse of scrub?”

“Precisely,” was my response, “All this land and the government might try to make rules about how it should be used.”

When we finally piled out the car – Ann, Rubin, all our gear and me – the sun warmed our faces and reflected off the snow. It was 34 degrees. The air was dry, but nippy and despite the temperature and the warmth of the sun, it was cold.

We skied right away after checking into the resort stretching our tired car riding muscles and allowing Rubin some needed puppy energy release. The Methow Valley is relatively flat, which makes for incredible cross-country skiing as well as expansive views of the surrounding valleys and mountains. Because of its latitude and easterly location, the snow is abundant and dry, if that’s how snow can be described. No matter because it’s perfect for skiing and it’s even more perfect for dogs to run and run and run and run.

Rubin did just that for 9 miles. Actually, we skied for 9 miles, he probably ran far more than that as he raced back and forth between us, ahead of us, and then back behind us. By the time we got back to the car his tongue lolled off to one side and he didn’t have the energy to jump up into the back seat.

We drove into town for dinner and ate under the Christmas lights and ornaments that hang in the funky restaurant all year round. Dinner consisted of burritos and rellanos and two baskets of chips. By the time we left the restaurant, the night sky came alive with stars and a full moon sat fat on the horizon. We walked in the snow back at the resort while the moon hid itself behind the earth. A full lunar eclipse wasn’t on our itinerary, but oh what a surprise. We watched the shadow of the earth edge its way across the white globe not quite obscuring it, but transforming the brightness into a dingy ball of dirt. It was magnificent to see ourselves silhouetted in a kind of philosophical way – we were nothing but insignificant matter now cast as shadow in the night sky. It almost made me want to howl at the moon.

We woke early this morning, suited up and hit the same dog friendly trail. Rubin was delighted. The cold air was a stark contrast to the warm sun. We thought we’d skied for hours only to return to the car at noon, just in time for lunch in Mazama. We warmed ourselves on the porch of the Mazama Country Store and then headed out for another short ski while Rubin rested in the car.

We ate dinner in our room, read our books, and then walked around the resort one last time before bed. The moon, no longer eclipsed or fully full, was bright. Not just in its contrast to the night sky, but bright like overwhelmingly so. I squinted. With Rubin’s leash wrapped around my waist, we crunched through the snow. The snow, they say, concentrates the smells so Rubin was transfixed by certain spots and anxious to get to others. “Don’t pull,” I told him and gave a quick yank to the leash. He backed off a bit, but soon edged ahead pulling me along with him. Snow drifts carried the scent of rabbit and deer, raccoon and fellow domestic dogs. “Don’t pull,” I said again and then laughed. “Donpull, ronpaul,” I said in my best Russian accent and I heard Ann laugh beside me, her smile lit up by the spotlight of the moon.

Getting away like this feels necessary. I know that soon, with the changing of careers, I will not have access to such gloriously long vacations. A week off in February is a luxury. Four days to ski in Winthrop feels even more so. Today, after we skied in the morning and realized it was only noon when we were done, was almost surreal. “Shouldn’t it be like 3 in the afternoon?” I asked Ann.

But time is moving slowly today and perhaps it will tomorrow. I’m trying to pay attention. I’m trying to soak up each moment of sun, each moment of light reflected off the white, crystallized snow. I’m trying to laugh longer and breathe deeper. I’m trying to make my heart pump harder and my muscles push a little bit farther. Not because it’s my last “mid-winter break,” not because I don’t think I’ll ever be here again skiing like this. It’s something much more elusive than that. I was trying to put my finger on it as we walked in the moonlight with Rubin tugging at the leash. It has to do with the infinitesimal feeling of the shadow on the moon, of the bazillion stars in the sky, of the rise of the mountains to the west and the rumble of the river to the south.

I am not a religious woman. I’ve leaned more toward the animist view that we are part of something larger, something spiritual in the sense that my existence is connected to the existence of the coyote howling in the distance or the pine forest along a rivers edge. Coming here, to this valley so far from home, makes me realize how much I need reminders of my place in the fabric of things. Coming here keeps me grounded in a way that the city can’t. Coming here lets me see that what I do in the world matters at the same time that it doesn’t matter, and it’s in that paradox of contradictions I am able to let go for a little while. It allows me to truly relax and not carry the burden of choices and obligations that overwhelm me.

This is a world that contains pulling dogs, Ron Paul, and lunar eclipses. This is a world where the moon can blind and illuminate, where the snow can be cold on the land and warm on the skin. This is a world where mountains divide the land and the people, where rivers cut through valleys, and rain gives way to snow. This is a world where dogs can bury their noses in one spot and smell a week’s worth of history with one sniff.

I feel like I’m doing that now – smelling this one spot trying to understand my light in a ripped black canvas.