We like walking with River. A lot. It’s one of the few activities that we seem to enjoy equally at this point. We usually snuggle him up in warm clothes and a cheap sling that let’s him face out, then it’s out the back gate and up the hill.

We don’t love everything about where we live, but really, we can’t complain. The “usual” is a two ravine walk, which takes us deep through two untraveled ravines, a creek cutting through the middle. When I say untraveled, I mean I rarely ever see anyone out there, which is strange because it is wildly beautiful.

Even in mid summer it is dark in the ravine’s hold. Enormous old stumps suggest the immensity of the first forests and the trail rises and falls, winding, always to the tune of running water. It’s here we found the salmonberries early summer, and here we hope some of River’s first memories will be from.

Sometimes I get tired or lazy and think to cut the walk short after one ravine, but then I am reminded that my time with River is rare and will not always be this tranquil. So I push on and thank River for the lesson.

Yesterday made me love the fall. It was raining and we walked under the small roof of a colorful umbrella. Leaves spun and glided down in the wind and the creek was running high. Every part of the day—all the pieces of the place around us—felt so tenuous and temporary. Which made me love it more, and River too, I think. I wished I’d had the camera, but knew that wouldn’t capture it either.