From John Morelock, as posted on the North Texas Trail Runners site

"Jazz From the Graveyard," the voice from KPLU informedme almost as if hearing me wonder what I was listeningto at two in the morning. I was trying to decidebetween Herbie Hancock's "Possibilities" or EarthaKitt's "Back in Business" when he said something aboutan uninterrupted hour of women singing the blues. Ileft the radio on. One less decision.

Weird running, sort of running, on the island last evening. After three days of thick fog, a breeze was clearing the air. I decided to run Cedar Grove, tryingto get to the bluff for sunset and follow my brand new, hasn't been taken outside yet, six-LED lantern back to the car.

I sometimes wonder what sort of fool drivers think they are seeing, if they see us at all, as I pull on the last layer--rain shell, gloves, cap, pat pockets for lights--and head off into the drizzle. Crunch, crunch, crunch down the gravel, winding away from the sound of cars hurrying home, I round the curve and their lights go away. The dusk of evening thickens as memory takes me down Humpty Dump to Alder Grove and up to Escape. Cold water splashes from brushed limbs. The gravel road is left behind and the leaves of a thousand trees hide all sound--breathing and heartbeats become the only noise--their rhythm joins my legs as I turn onto Cedar Grove.

In "Last Child in the Woods" we are told the currentgeneration is not going out in the woods; is notleaving the protective supervision of playgrounds in subdivisions; is losing the imagination nature wants us to develop. These are my woods most of the time, the place my imagination plays, unsupervised. An old child wanders along, unsupervised.

I pass the Old Men, fog shrouded, cedar boughs bent and dripping brush my shoulder as I start the drop to the kettle and darkness. It is too cloudy for sunset anddropping down the side of the kettle the challenge tha thas been whispering comes forth loudly: You can get to the bluff without turning on the light if you hurry.

Hurry? Well, at least shuffle faster. Ohkeigh. Up the switchbacks wondering how many trails do I know how many switchbacks they each have? Dimple, Stick in theEye, Butterfield, this one, and that one across the water--water? The clouds have lifted enough to see theOlympic Mountains over on the peninsula. One last ray of sunset fights for its glory as I come up out of the kettle above the Straits of Juan de Fuca.

I set on a knotted root of a many-years-old Alaskan Cedar scanning the waters, looking at mountains silhouetted across the sound. As I glance down a patch of white moves, then another--two adult bald eagles are enjoying sunset on the beach. Maybe the huge nest that was empty last year will have a family this year. I leave in the gathering darkness, right, left, past the fallen one, right, and around to the top. No lights yet.

The games we play. Can I make it to Grancy's Run without turning on my brand new flashlight? The bluff is left behind. The sun's last ray snuffed as I turn downward to the quarter-mile of pavement on the park road and left toward Grancy's. One hoo-hoo-huaoo greets me as I lengthen the stride. The gate I made last August greets me. Gates and benches made by my hands--they hold so much more than do the programs written on the screens at other times. I slip by the gate and start down the alley of darkness. A mile and a tenth to the car. My eyes enjoy a seldom felt challenge. It's only dark for another quarter-mile, then the whiteness of the old gravel road will be visible. I slip the light back into its scabbard.

Gravel crunches 'neath my feet as I follow the ghostly whisper of white through the alleys of ocean spray, cedar, and alder. The lights of cars on the highway tell me another night run is over. The last steps are drowned by the hiss and whine of tires on asphalt. I pause at the last turn to look back--some nights we leave something out there. I'll go back tomorrow to make sure it's ohkeigh.