Hold a hand out palm-up and feel it: even when it isn't raining, the air here is heavy, cool, faintly wet against your skin. That's the whole secret of this place, and up on the open rim you can finally feel its size. Wet ocean air rolls in off the Pacific, has to climb when it reaches these Cascade foothills, and cooling air can't hold its water, so it lets go right here on the western slope, sixty to eighty inches a year, near seven feet of water stacked up over twelve months, soaking in and never quite drying out. That's why everything you've passed is so impossibly green: the wet hangs on through the gray months and the forest drinks it day and night. Botanists call it a near-temperate rainforest, the inland cousin of the dripping coast. That soft tick-tick around you isn't quiet rain. It's the forest still letting go of yesterday's.
Stop a second and hold your hand out, palm up. Feel that? Even when it isn't raining, the air here is doing something — heavy, cool, faintly wet against your skin. That's the whole secret of this place, and up here in the open you can finally feel the size of it.
Here's what's happening overhead. Wet ocean air comes rolling in off the Pacific, and when it reaches these Cascade foothills it has to climb. Air that climbs cools, and cool air can't hold its water, so it lets go — right here, on this western slope. Sixty to eighty inches of rain a year falls on this ground. Some winters, more. Picture five, six, nearly seven feet of water stacked up over twelve months, soaking in, dripping down, never quite drying out.
That's why everything you've passed is so impossibly green. The wet hangs on through the gray months, the air stays loaded, and the forest drinks it day and night. Botanists have a careful name for this — a near-temperate rainforest, the inland cousin of the dripping coast.
So listen for a beat. That soft tick-tick all around you isn't quiet rain. It's the forest itself, still letting go of yesterday's. You're walking through a sky that decided to come down and stay.
