Traipsing 'Tween Worlds

We pledged between the three of us to be explorers of the Caves, there at the Skinners Butte rock wall on the edge of downtown Eugene. We looked up at the forty feet of sheer pillared stone, green hillside and oak forests sloping away from the top. "This is one of the most beautiful places in our city," I said.

We climbed the outside earthen edge and peered out over our metropolitan area. Industrial pillars belched dark clouds over concrete paths and square buildings. Cars and trucks inched like ants over highways that snaked its outer rims and doubled back to shopping malls parked at the river's edge. "This is one of the ugliest views of our city," I said.

We climbed the rock way up, poking into dark nooks, unearthing mysterious skeletons and brittle vegetation, imagining the demise of these cave creatures before us. Sam saw a Saber Tooth cat and he and I sprang lightly down across the rocks, drawing our swords. As the big cat made its escape, we turned to practice on each other, brandishing our invisible weapons as we darted and weaved at the foot of the stone fortress.

"I cut your sword in half!" shouted Sam. "Here's a new one."

After another minute's entanglement: "Now I've cut your pants. Here... stitch!" He bound the torn cloth with invisible needle and thread.

"I'll play easy on you now, Mom," he whispered, apologetically.

Trinidad, above, discovered the origin of the cave paintings (I [heart] Mark) and turned to scratching rock upon rock with an artist's care.

What would natives do?

Sam took me from our Camp to share an invisible map on a large post. After he pointed out our location in respect to the street (across which, they have told me, you can look into the Other World that we came from), the Dark Forest, and the Caves. As I turned away, I noticed aloud that the Park Rules were posted beside it.

"What do they say?" asked Sam.

I read them silently to myself (no camping, park opened now, closed then, etc.), and only after I spoke these words did I hear them myself: "Well, to be honest, they don't say anything useful for us. They must have been written for somebody else."

I am caught in that moment between worlds, their world and mine, magical and urban.

"One is concrete, one is stone," Trinidad tells me. "The stone will last longer, but even this will probably be gone in a thousand years."

Oh my children, hold them gently.