Everyone needs a place to which they can retreat when life brings too much rain in the rainbow. Come with me to "Where the White Chuck Rushes In."
A few miles from Darrington, Washington on the Mountain Loop Highway, the White Chuck River joyously tumbles out of the mountains and joins the mighty Sauk River. Thanks to a spur-of-the moment trip with my brother years ago, whenever I feel sad or stressed, I quietly close my eyes and relive that perfect day. Peace is restored and the assurance that God is still in control.
Summer skies smiled as Randy and I began the two-hour drive from Kent to Darrington. Every mile brought us closer to the logging town where we were born and raised. A town where we didn't lock doors. Where neighbors helped neighbors. We stopped at the cemetery outside of town and reminisced about the many friends and relatives who had gone on. We remembered basketball games and snow-clogged winters. Wiener roasts and hiking. Easter Sunrise services and Christmas pageants. All part of who we were. Next came "Logger Burgers," (named in honor of our school ball teams) at the local drive-in. A foot-long roll filled with ground beef, ham, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, cheese, mayo, mustard, and catsup, guaranteed to send hunger packing. Stuffed, we waddled to the car and drove up Clear Creek Road.
When we reached where the White Chuck met the Sauk, Randy got out a fishing pole. I sat on a huge, sun-warmed boulder, one of many washed down by some previous flood. A feeling of deja vu swept over me. I was again a child, then a teenager, watching Dad and the boys fishing in the Sauk down over the hill from where we lived. Back then, before Darrington gained popularity with "city folk" fishermen, by the time Mom and I got a fire going on the riverbank, the guys had caught enough trout to accompany fried potatoes and sliced tomatoes.
Randy caught two trout, too small to keep. I basked in the warm sunshine until afternoon shadows lengthened. At last, we reluctantly left the peaceful, mountain-surrounded idyll, but the day had indelibly etched itself on my heart and mind.
All these years later, the memory beckons. I return, again and again. An unspoiled example of God's Creation,where sunlight sparkles on the rushing rivers. Blue skies continue to smile. Cottonwood trees whisper secrets in the gentle breeze, and dance merrily in the rising wind. Towering fir trees clasp branches and bow their heads, as if praising God, or pronouncing a benediction.
All of this incredible beauty cannot compare with the wonders awaiting in Heaven. Yet until that becomes my new home, I will cherish and give thanks for the day Randy and I spontaneously walked away from busy schedules and traveled to where the White Chuck Rushes in.
I encourage you to find your own healing memory. Visit often, and be renewed--as I am.
Blessings,
Colleen
7 comments:
What lovely, cherished memories. Thank you for sharing.
Your beautiful descriptions made me feel as if I'd visited Darrington with you and Randy. It's important to have a go-to place, even if the "going" is only in our imaginations!
Thanks, Judy and Sandy. I am so glad we are blessed with the ability to remember and relive events from the past. Randy and i had several outings--one was to Mt. Rainier; also spur-of-the-moment. Sometimes they turn out even better than planned happenings!
I, too, am touched by your memories - as I have my own precious ones of other places around that beautiful little patch of paradise. Thank you
Oh, yes, Jan. We share a rich heritage.
So fortunate to have such a lovely memory of both a place and a person you hold dear to your heart. I had a place up by Carbonado. I haven't been that direction since the weather took the bridge at least 47 years ago. I wonder if I could even find it except in my memory.
We camped there a few times when I was very young. I remember I saw my first bull snake there! The little creek barrelling down the hill over the huge boulders was perfect in every way, settling in little quiet ponds between rushes.
Carbonado is such a neat place. Years ago, Anita and I went there one sunny afternoon when we decided to "run away from home." It reminded me a lot of Darrington. The creek sounds like the White Chuck River--barrelling down the hill over the huge boulders!
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