The trail is a loop on land that had been privately owned yet was only lightly logged, leaving most of its old growth trees alive. Last summer, fifteen of us walked the dusty firebreak road led by an ex-New Zealander guide who said, "Maybe an owl did this, or even a bobcat," standing over a pile of blood-stained feathers and fluff.
We reached the trailhead and took a narrow path, clambering over rotting stumps and living roots, stopping to pick berries and take pictures. An ex-Californian looking at familiar stands of Douglas Fir disappearing into the sky, wounded by termites and woodpeckers, he did not only know the scientific name and ecological function of all the plants he came across, but he discussed them with the natives as if he had always been part of that habitat. The men of the forest listened to him attentively and were amazed that I thought, "What had the Indians felt walking through these deep shadows falling from great heights?"
Alberto Giacometti from his peers was not the impossibly thin figures
he made. It was that in his psyche object and subject melded. One day,
after his wife had in his studio posed for him for hours, meeting her
at home he said,
At a certain depth,
there is only process. So when physicists propose strings, these
are not materialized forms but math-