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Diary of a Vision Quest Part II: A Haibun

© Thomas James Martin

Author's Note: Please read Part I of this series for more background on this Diary of a Vision Quest which took place in the spring of 2003 at the Breitenbush Campground in Central Oregon.

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I wake to the roar of the Breitenbush River and shrill sounds of a Stellar Jay. I open the flap of the tent and lie for a while listening to bird song and and watching the river. Downriver to my right I watch the water lap at a deadfall of fir and birch logs piled up at water's edge in a bend of the river.

Outside my tent
a circle of gray stones
paper beeches, a playhouse

I leave the tent and gather firewood, mostly poplar and pine; I drop them in a circular metal fireplace and go back to gather an armful of kindling-old pine cones and needles and dry leaves.

The fire I build feels wonderful, warms me against the morning chill. I dump some coffee grounds into a pot of water and set it on the fire. I get out a frying pan and soon am busy preparing blueberry pancakes.

I eat pancakes and sip the bitter, camp coffee while I listen to the river and watch the white water breaking on the gray river rocks. I am happy in the solitude.

Bouncing heavenward
no hat, no shoes,
under a fragmentary blue.

After breakfast I wander along the river, lost in its roar, wondering if I shall meet my totem animal, a guide for the journey. I look up, half expecting to see the graceful circle of a hawk or eagle against the blue sky. I observe the river, wondering about beaver or salmon. I find no creatures along the river path, no signs of bear or deer--only the a dense array of ferns, Douglas Fir, red cedar along the damp, black trail.

I return to my camp table, sit, and stare at the fast-flowing river for hours; it is swollen with the spring rains and the water level is high. Today is Wesak, the day of the Buddha's enlightenment.

Still, no visions of my destiny appear in my meditations. I refill my coffee cup from the bubbling pot on the grate, taste it and just as quickly spit the mess out. It's been boiling all day--tastes like burnt rubber and turpentine.

No eagle in the sky,
a little chipmunk
scurries out of my tent

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