The Viewpoint, Seen from Above

The Viewpoint, Seen from Above, July, 2008

Copyright © 2008 Paul D. Natkin, All Rights Reserved

Seen from above, the Viewpoint appears to be nothing of any great consequence. It's complexity cannot be discerned.

The Shortcut

Last night I looked at the edge in the dark; today I looked at it in the day. The question is which way I can remember it best. When it's dark, the edge is clearly delineated from the space beyond it. The edge is illuminated; the space is not. But in the daytime, I can see more about what's going on with the edge as it curves around the hillside than I can at night. For instance, roughly six feet to the southwest of the Sentinel, there's a stretch of bare earth going down from the edge to the trail below. This stretch of bare earth is an unofficial trail, formed by the clambering feet of all the people who have chosen to take a shortcut from the park to the official trail, instead of walking to the end of the park, where the rock marks the official beginning of the trail. I remember at least once or twice taking photos of someone scrambling up this unofficial trail--or tearing down it. There are two large exposed tree roots that form "stairs" on this shortcut, as well as a third that sticks out at a funny angle at the bottom. At night you don't see the shortcut at all, but it's an important marker of distance in the curve as it wraps around the hill. One more thing I should mention: the greatest degree of curvature occurs on the other side of the Sentinel, in the direction of the adjacent street. I've taken a lot of photos to document this. It's a simple, humble curve--like a simple, humble song.

The Sentinel

Years ago--I don't remember exactly when--I wrote some notes while at the Viewpoint. The page, which I later tore from my notebook, is dated "May 22nd," with no indication of the year. This is what I wrote:

Perhaps you know the scene I paint, the place I visit again and again. It's a favorite place--the most beautiful in our beautiful city. Here, at the Viewpoint, one one [sic] can stand on an icy January morning to watch the sun burst up, huge and orange, from behind the snowcapped Cascade Mountains; and here, on a balmy summer evening, one can sit on a blanket or lawn chair to celebrate the appearance of the large and glowing full moon.
While visitors to the Viewpoint never tire of watching this theater of celestial events, there's something less showy that brings people here as well. Its a curve--yes, a simple, humble curve. If you walk from one end of the Viewpoint to the other, you round a gentle bend. From the place where you end up, you can look back on the place where you started out; and chances are, you'll get to see another person come along the same course. Below is a tangle of trees and vines, and in the distance, Lake Washington and the mountains; but up on top, it's the curved edge of the lawn that makes the place what it is.
A few trees standing along the perimeter serve to accentuate the curve. Of these, one is larger than the others, and somehow the most impressive. I call it "the Sentinel," because it seems to guard--so silently, so

At the top of the page, there's a drawing of the curve, with the trunk of the "Sentinel" and the houses along the adjoining street. Somewhere I have more notes like this--a lot more--but I've misplaced them. I'll have to locate my Viewpoint archive, but I'm not sure that's where they ended up.