The geographer marks time by watching trees. In fall, he drives to the dry side of the Cascades, where he scans the horizon for larix occidentalis, or western larch.
"From a high vantage point," he says, "You can spot every larch in a ten mile radius. The needles actually shimmer this time of year." He explains how they turn golden yellow and drop from the branches, like maple and oak leaves in Iowa.
Deciduous evergreens. Even though I know they're not really evergreens, I like the contradiction. Deciduous conifers just isn't the same. I close my eyes and imagine the yellow needles, how they might feel if I could rake them and lie down in a soft pile, their tips tickling the small of my back through my sweater knit, little needle-leaves sticking to my hair, sliding into the waist of my pants, or falling into my collar and collecting in small piles along my clavicle. Or how they might smell as they loosen from the bark. Sweet, like the soft core of ripe apples? Or clean and cold, like pine? These trees are like me - an exile out of place, unable to accept a green winter. No wonder they grow on the dry side of the mountains. No wonder the geographer goes back for them.
Later, I find out the larch contains a substance, deep within its bark, that can treat cancer and viruses. Arabinogalactin. A polysaccharide that enhances immunity, stops the metastasis of tumor cells to the liver, and increases healthy bacteria. Six months after my surgery, my health not much better than before, I am going to have to reconsider the evergreen.