It's confounding to know how to describe a rain forest. What happens all around when you're in it is so remarkable that it's stunning.
It looks cartoonish, as if it couldn't be real, couldn't be a photograph at all but some monstrosity created by AI, as a setting for something alien. But it isn't--it's just what happens to things in a certain wet environment--a combination of plant life and showers and mist and never-ending humidity.
But what it looks like is weird.
I hate to say it, but if you let your mind open to soak in everything around you, it's almost horrifying.
Nothing in this scramble will attack you, but nothing really begs you to get any closer or asks you to be a friend.
Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, a group of friends from the prairies took a trip to the ocean in Washington, to Olympia National Park--eight days of soaking in the visions of a remarkably awesome region.
At the end of their travels, they asked each other what day, what place, what activity they each found most unforgettable--and the answer, from every last visitor/hiker? The most memorable place, visit, time was the couple hours they spent here--in the rainforest.
Something beautiful, but more. . .something compelling yet fearful, something fearful but enchanting, something beyond words maybe. . .
Something from another world.
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