As I ascended the old logging road, deep in the Kilchis river canyon, my eyes felt pulled to a ridge jutting away from the main path some three hundred feet above the river. The blinding spring sunshine fled through the trees, soaking into the earth, as a faint steam rose from the well-saturated flanks of the canyon. Small birds cried tiny songs from the thicket of salmonberry, sword ferns, and Oregon grape; I returned their calls, hoping for an exchange. Even after responding, I still could not see them hiding in their brushy quarters, so I carried on.

I wound my way between branches and sticks as I followed the ridge out along the edge- wondering where I was going. Thorns snagged my clothing and scraped at my bare arms, but a path was worn into the carpet of moss here. I followed it.

As I stepped into a clearing…