From the mouth of the cave at Moonstone, it occurred — rainbows have no end. And their tendency to appear and disappear makes hunting them almost hopeless. But, as rainbows always happen at a hundred and twenty seven degrees
from the sun, in Winter they tend to lurk to the North. This is how the tour came full circle, anyway, with one arc of color after another, all the way back into Oregon.

It was a cold weekend, a damp chill, wrought with feelings of abandonment and isolation. Decade-old patterns of homelessness and alcoholism, familiar in a sad, nostalgic way, served no purpose now, replaced by better values and a different set of needs. To meet a pretty girl at the Community Forrest, an afternoon soak at Finnish Country, the first rainbows at Mad River, and coffee offered warmth. Arcata hasn’t changed much.

The chalk arrows and hearts have all been washed away by the rain. Hundreds, if not thousands, of miles walked — Leticia, valued higher than a pot of gold… or rubies. The cryptic nature of the place, reticent echoes of something infinite, and the vulnerability of thinking blurred by beer; the point of no return was passed, just to be heard. There was still no sense of being wanted.

The last day brought an unforeseen friend, though transience limits the depth of any interaction. An interesting reflection, Sam was such a connection ten years ago, a shared appreciation for something timeless (and the same name). There were many missed connections. So many names, memories, unmanifest dreams… perhaps the trip should have been longer?

There was no closure, just the presence of alternate paths and the foreshadowing of eternity diffracted by the sky. Rainbows, it turns out, are made of love. Because love, even in a storm, is made of light.