Thomas Doty – Storyteller
Early May. I walk through the coastal rain along the lower Rogue River. Through a thick-canopied forest, this trail is brimmed with puddles. Rain-heavy ferns soak my pant legs. Swollen creeks cascade down the ridges. A brief glimpse through the trees shows a sky as gray and wide and wet as the ocean.
Two inches of rain yesterday, an inch the day before. Even the locals, who seldom talk about something that happens nearly every spring day, are talking about how much it's rained.
The forecast for these woods? More rain. These trees are so thick they'll drip rain for hours after the sky has cleared.
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