A Midnight Stroll

A fine October night in interior Alaska. Steaming cup of coffee in hand, I stand on the porch in my bare feet. At ten below zero it feels downright tropical. It’s midnight, and the cabin; just below the Arctic Circle, is engulfed in silence. Far overhead, northern lights compete with the moon for ascendancy. Beneath them, the land is bathed in an otherworldly glow. Breathing deeply, I try to capture the magic of this night, to fix it within my being, if only for a time. No luck—once again, transcendentalism has betrayed me. Or so it seems.

Looking toward the southeast, a patchwork of dark woods and brightly illuminated snowfields extends toward the horizon and the bulk of the Alaska Range. Close by the cabin, a copse of spruce and birch trees lean into each other in a conspiratorial fashion, keeping their own counsel. For just a moment, the faintest of whispers reach me. I listen closely, straining to hear, but learn nothing. Whatever secrets they share are not meant for my ear. Far back in the dark woods, flashes of light draw my attention. Like will-o’-the-wisps, the starlight, reflected off the snow, beckons. But I remain, transfixed by the night.

Now the aurora, swirling above, asserts itself. As it increases in intensity, an eerie green light fills the clearing. From far above, I hear, for the first time in my life, the sound of the aurora borealis. Outsiders might scoff, but native Alaskans have long known that it can sometimes be heard. As the electric sound recedes, I turn to find I have company. Before me, my shadow stands etched upon the cabin’s wall. I am reminded of Plato’s Parable of the Cave. But, unlike the cave’s famous inhabitant, I’ve never felt so free. We stand there a moment longer, my shadow and I, contemplating our mutual existence.

Our ruminations are interrupted by the sharp crack of spruce limbs breaking beneath something large and furry. Who’s there? I ask reflexively. In answer, I hear the rustle of brush as a tentative step is taken in my direction. Pausing, I consider the loaded rifle leaning inside the door. But it won’t be necessary. Another step, this time accompanied by the sound of munching from the undergrowth. Mystery solved. My nocturnal visitor has resolved itself into nothing more than an insomniac moose, out for a midnight snack.

Turning my attention back to the heavens, I discover that the aurora has abandoned me. In its stead, stars without number sparkle across the firmament. Though I want to see more, the cold has at last found me. Scurrying inside I retrieve my boots and parka, leaving the rifle behind. Once outside, I move away from the cabin for a better view. Glancing back from a distance, my cabin appears snug and reassuring; an oasis of warmth amidst the cold. Far above, I watch as billions of years of history unfold before me. In the utter silence of this night I stand, an audience of one, and attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible.

I think of my small cabin, nestled in the interior of Alaska, and of the continent upon which it rests. This continent, that peeks from the blue oceans of a modest little planet known as Earth. And what of Earth itself, a mere speck in the infinity of the cosmos. By what strange concatenation have it, and I, come into existence?

I’d like to say that standing there; I am privy to some startling revelations regarding our existence. That; for a moment, I truly understand the nature of reality. The fact is that doesn’t happen. Instead, my reverie is broken by the arrival of a meteor low in the southeast. Approaching improbably close, it flares in a final ecstasy of immolation and dissolves in a burst of light. Blinking, I stamp my feet against the cold and look around me.

The moon, resting against the horizon, appears gigantic. From this low angle, its buttery yellow light etches the land in deep relief. Mountains seventy miles away stand sentinel as the valleys beneath them retreat into shadow. And as I shiver, gawking at this magnificent scene, a fey sense of awareness overcomes me. For just a moment, I have the distinct impression that my surroundings have shifted imperceptibly. A façade has been lifted. And in that instant, I perceive the sheer improbability of it all. An overwhelming sense of unreality leaves me shaken, unsteady. The moon, the mountains and forest, now appear as mere props scattered upon an enormous stage. And I, what am I?

Reeling from my discovery, I flounder through the snow, back toward the cabin. It’s much colder now, perhaps twenty five below. My boots squeak against the snow as I make my way. Pausing at the porch to catch my breath, I venture a final look around me…nothing. Everything looks normal, even banal. My snow shovel rests on the porch, as it always does. The usual junk remains stuffed beneath the porch for safekeeping. Out front, a surplus 55-gallon barrel awaits its fate. It’s just your normal Alaskan cabin. If it’s all part of a play, everything’s in place for the next act.

Inside, hands stiff from the cold, I manage to remove my parka and boots. As I warm myself, I think of what just happened in the forest. It is then that I recall another forest, where Shakespeare has Jaques declaim: “All the world’s a stage.” Well, you won’t get any argument from me, not now. But if it is just a theatrical production, if reality isn’t all it’s made out to be, then who is producing it? Will it have a long run? Or does it even matter? What the hell, some moments should be experienced, not analyzed. Maybe that’s our problem. We’re always looking for meaning, when we should just be looking. Eventually, I succumb to the weight of these philosophical queries. Feeling my way in the dark, I wearily climb up to the loft and collapse into my sleeping bag. The curtain lowers….

The Big Woods

Sitting in a pile of leaves, I glance up to a leaden, October sky forty years in the past.
Seems like yesterday. It was the first time I was ever alone in the outdoors. I learned some important lessons that day, there in the big woods; lessons about life, death, and the ephemeral beauty of existence. Though I didn’t know at the time what effect this would have on my life, even then I knew something numinous had occurred….

After repeated pleading, my father had consented to take me squirrel hunting with him on the condition that I remain quiet and pay attention. Though the details of that magical day remain, I can’t say with certainty where I was. I only know that I found myself in an enormous, hardwood forest. Like many of my childhood haunts, it’s probably long gone; buried beneath strip malls and fast-food joints, sacrificed in the interest of urbanization.

When we arrived, I could hardly contain myself. Like a bird dog that realizes he’s going hunting, I was shaking with excitement. When squirrel hunting, it helps to have a breeze in order to cover the sound of the hunter’s steps. But on this day not a breath of air stirred. It felt unnaturally calm, as if we were in the eye of a storm—one of our own making. I tried to quietly follow my father, but it seemed to me I was making an infernal racket. Supporting this premise, my father would occasionally glance back at me, an annoyed look on his face. As an adult, I pride myself on my ability to move silently through the woods. Back then I must have sounded like Sherman marching through Georgia. Undeterred, we continued in this fashion until we came to a break in the woods. There we paused while my father considered his next move.

Because I had revealed an unexpected talent for making noise, my father decided to leave me at the edge of the woods. “Wait here; don’t move from this spot till I come back for you.” he said. Then, with gun in hand, he sauntered over the hill and out of sight. Sitting still, I strained to hear the last of his footsteps, but he was already gone. Anxiously I watched, thinking he would soon return. After awhile, my anxiety eased as I grasped the novelty of my situation. This was my first time in the big woods and I was totally, incontrovertibly…alone.

Perhaps my memory plays tricks on me, but it seems that my experience that day was imbued with a clarity and sublimity of perception never equaled in all the years that followed. Everything seemed new, as indeed it was. The trees stood out against the gray, opalescent sky; each leaf etched in exquisite detail. I reached out to touch the rough bark of a nearby tree. Before, I had thought of trees as inanimate objects, but now I realized, with a start, that this was a living thing, like myself.

I sat beneath it, nestled in a pile of leaves redolent of fall color the rain had failed to wash away. I studied a leaf in detail, tracing with my finger its palmate geometry. Lying back in the leaves, the powerful, organic odor of decay engulfed me. The wheel of life spun unabated, seemingly indifferent to my presence. I felt at home in a way I couldn’t explain. When you’re seven years old, it doesn’t occur to you that one day, you too, will become part of the Earth. After all, Nature isn’t really indifferent—it’s just patient.

Staring up at the sky, I sank further into the leaves until I lay partially buried. The silence was profound. My short life amidst the cacophony of humanity had not prepared me for this. Mesmerized, I laid transfixed, oblivious to anything but the arch of the sky. Somewhere far off, the faint sound of a gunshot sounded once then faded away. Silence reasserted itself.

How long I remained like that, I can’t say. But at some point my reverie was broken. I sat up as somewhere, far on the periphery of my senses, something moved. I scanned the sky, waiting. Suddenly, an enormous silhouette soared past me. Its appearance lasted but a moment. So quickly and soundlessly did it disappear, I couldn’t be sure what I saw. A moment later, a raucous group of crows announced themselves. They too, flew over my head and disappeared in pursuit of the mysterious shadow.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just received my first lesson from nature. Decades later, and thousands of miles away, I would watch in Alaska’s Tongass National Forest as a group of song birds mobbed a Bald Eagle in similar fashion. Then I would recall my earlier encounter with Strix nebulosa, the Great Gray Owl in those Kentucky woods.

With the departure of my mysterious visitors, the spell was broken. Chilled from the damp ground I stood up, impatient for my father’s return. After what seemed like an eternity, he made his way back to me. As I excitedly told him about what I had seen, I noticed a bushy tail dangling limply from the pouch on the back of his hunting vest. “Did you get one?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, handing me the squirrel.

Holding the soft body, I ran my hand down the beautiful red fur. A twinge of remorse assailed me. One pellet had struck the hapless squirrel just above the eye, killing it instantly. What had been a vibrant, living creature was now reduced to a lifeless, inert carcass. With its glassy eye upon me I petted the squirrel, one last time, and returned him to my father. That was the second lesson.

Sometimes, it seems that long-ago day in the big woods might be a fiction. In some sense, perhaps it is. Nothing that sublime could last. My father, like the squirrel, is long dead. Even the land has been changed beyond recognition. The remnants of that day are to be found only within the confines of my mind—and only there, for a short time. No matter, that day marked me for the rest of my life. Now, whenever I’m in the wild I think back to that time; to my first glimpse of the beauty and pathos that is life, and then I know I’m home.

Labor Day Redux

Labor Day finds me hiking up the erroneously named Beaver Pond Trail. Unfortunately, it turns out to be nothing more than a vague path through the brush that eventually leads to a dried out, cow-pie laden stock pond. No self-respecting beaver would be caught dead in a place like this. Encouraged by the sound of gunfire from farther up the hill, I decide to retreat and try my luck on Slate Mountain…twenty minutes later I’m headed up the trail. Less than an hour ago, when I passed by, there were eight or ten cars parked here—now, I have the place to myself. I pass a small butterfly on the trail, desperately flapping its wings in a futile attempt to warm up. Hopefully, any rattlesnakes lurking about will also have a case of frostbite.

5:15 PM: late for a hike but there’s no one else on the trail—just the way I like it. A subtle breeze blows down the mountain, causing the limbs of a juniper tree to rub together with a sigh. The overcast sky presses down upon me. No wonder everyone left; it’s a day only Poe could appreciate. Moving slowly up the trail, I pause to glass the mountainside looking for…what? I’m not sure. A mule deer, maybe a mountain lion or coyote—perhaps even a Bigfoot. Who knows? After all, this area is reputed to be prime habitat for them. I stare through the binoculars, willing the creature to appear. The minutes tick by as I study the terrain.

My concentration is broken as somewhere far overhead the dull roar of a jet intrudes upon the silence. Reminding me, once again, that my sense of isolation is illusionary. After all, I’m in Idaho’s Bannock mountain range. Pocatello to the north, Salt Lake City to the south; cowboys and cowgirls all over the place—not to mention their cows. By my standards it’s civilized, even genteel. What do I expect? Impatiently, I watch the jet disappear over the northern horizon. Eventually, the silence returns.

As shadows lengthen, the mountains close in, brooding and watchful. They know more than they’re saying—I’m sure of it. Shrugging off the feeling that I’m the one being watched, I resume glassing the slopes. Finally, my patience is rewarded. Far up the mountain, I spot a black bear standing up. For a moment I watch, spellbound as the bear stares intently at something farther up the mountainside. What's he looking at? Struggling to remain still, I marvel at the bear's composure. He doesn’t move a muscle; I’m impressed. Five minutes later, when he still hasn’t budged, I’m less impressed. A closer look, and my bear proves to be nothing more than a burnt tree stump. I’m not surprised—it’s not the first time this has happened.

Once on Kodiak, I was hurrying down a trail in the dusk of a winter’s evening when I looked up to see a huge, dark object looming up ahead. It had to be a brown bear, but what was it doing there? Occasionally, bears do awaken from hibernation during winter. And when they do, it’s best to avoid them since they're generally in a bad mood. My path wound around a steep hillside above a creek. I had no choice but to follow the trail. All was silent save for the crunch of my snowshoes. Hopefully, my slow pace would give the bear time to notice me. After what seemed like an eternity, the distance was halved.

Still, the bear did not move. It was getting darker and I could barely make him out through the swirling snow. One thing was sure: I couldn’t stay out there and freeze. The bear would have to move. Easing the safety off my .375, I carefully closed the distance. At thirty feet, I was relieved to find myself facing nothing more ferocious than a tree trunk protruding from the snow. Thankful there were no witnesses, I sheepishly continued on my way. Now, whenever I’m in the woods and it grows dark, I think about that evening. Still, it doesn’t pay to get too complacent. After all, my wife once mistook a sunning brown bear for a tree stump—you just never know….

Raindrops herald the imminent arrival of a storm. Time to get off the mountain. It’s not that I’m averse to a shower—I could probably use one. No, it’s the lightning I object to. Just the day before, I watched as clouds discharged enormous bolts of lightning onto the surrounding peaks. With this in mind, I reluctantly turn and start down the trail. Much later, the rain tapers off. Still overcast, the sky no longer holds the low, troubled clouds that threatened me earlier. I probably could have continued on my way. As I descend, the metaphorical nature of my decision does not escape me.

A mystery: pausing to rest, I notice that here the mountainside is littered with the bleached remains of defunct snails. Scattered about me is a profusion of calcified shells, their former tenants missing in action. What dreadful calamity, I wonder, could have befallen them, and why here? Only on Slate Mountain have I found such remains. Adding to the mystery is the fact that there are no living snails to be found in the area. Could an epidemic have wiped them out? Carefully, I examine one of the delicate shells. Tracing with my eye the graceful curve of its geometry, I marvel at the mathematical precision it manifests. I recall a line of verse:

To see the world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower;

hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.

Like Blake’s grain of sand, my shell’s significance belies its small size. Though no mathematician [I barely scraped through college algebra], I have read of the Fibonacci sequence and the natural logarithm e. And so I realize that the structure of the shell I hold in my hand is predicated upon mysterious forces I can scarcely comprehend. How many generations of humans have trod the humble snail underfoot, unaware of the message locked within its shell? And if a shell the size of a dime can provide us with such startling insight into the nature of reality, what other revelations does nature reserve for those smart, and humble enough, to ask the correct questions?

I’d better watch out. If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself living in Sedona, an over-the-hill new-age guru busily engaged in crystal gazing and other esoteric forms of self-deception. The contemplation of nature is not without its dangers; chief among them the natural tendency of humans to conflate the mind of nature with the mind of man—they are not the same. Sometimes, as with the shell, the two intersect. When this occurs, it is a numinous experience. But in that moment, care must be taken lest we slip across the imperceptible boundary that divides our reality from some more mystical realm where the caprices of our mind hold sway.

Enough. This is supposed to be a hike, not Philosophy 101. With infinite care, I put the shell back where it lay; mindful of the fact that, in a few million years, someone [or something] else may find the fossil it becomes. Back on the trail, I find the tracks of a small mule deer. It wasn’t there when I went up—I’m sure of it. Kneeling, I place my hand on the track. It’s cool to the touch, the soil soft and damp. I consider the track, and the one who made it. Concentrating, I try to forge a bond between us, but nothing happens. By looking at the track, I can say with a degree of certainty the direction of travel, size of the deer, and how long ago it passed. But does this really tell me anything about the deer? What does it think? How does it view the world? These are considerations that must lie forever beyond my ken. Giving it up as a bad job, I head down the trail.

Hiking with me is not for everyone, that’s why I tend to go alone. For those who measure the success of a hike by the miles covered or the peaks conquered, my slow, contemplative approach holds little charm. Besides, I’m not that sociable to begin with. Nature cannot be properly appreciated en masse; it’s best experienced alone. Anyway, I’m always watching the ground, looking for tracks. Once again, the hike grinds to a halt when I spot a spent rifle cartridge half embedded in the trail. What past tragedy does this represent? Picking up the bent, corroded case I see that it is a .223—very popular in these parts for shooting what are vulgarly referred to as “varmints.”

This generous and inclusive term is applied to a variety of animals: foxes, coyotes, gophers, ground squirrels, etc. These and others are all fair game to the varmint hunter, who sanctimoniously looks upon his task as somewhat akin to a civic duty. Not only does he [or she] get to satisfy his thirst for senseless killing, he can then claim with some justification that he is making the Great American West a better place to live—for ranchers and cattle. To be fair, this particular round might have been expended on some other sporting proposition: a rock, sign or beer bottle—the possibilities are endless. Dropping the case, I continue down the mountain. In the distance, gunfire announces the presence of another Good Samaritan busily engaged in civic improvement.

Now the wind grows colder—gravedigger’s weather. The leaves blush scarlet as, beneath my feet, a caterpillar makes his way across the trail on what may be his last journey. Soon, winter will clasp the land in its icy embrace as the winds howl unrestrained across the Great Basin. Later, the age-old cycle will begin anew. The snows will melt, revealing the remains of winter’s victims, the fallen ones. The carcass of a mule deer emerging from a snow drift, or a nondescript pile of feathers trapped in the corner of the wire—the pathetic remains of creatures that, just the season before, felt the wind upon them as I do now. And yet, in the midst of death’s pathos, the sharp insistent cry of new life will be heard as the wheel of existence turns over, once more. Without realizing it, I have reached the trailhead. For now, my journey is over.