Old Growth Forest

Before I left the beach for the twilight of the forest, I gazed out into Seymour Canal; islands, reefs, and distant hills softened into bright morning light. I stood on the shale beach and watched the dark silhouette of the skiff vanish down the open side of the Cove. Then, I turned and entered the forest, where silence and solitude would accompany me through the thick, primeval jungle of old growth forest. This was not a place for those who fear being alone, nor was it a place for those not awake to the murmuring voices that moved about, watching each intruder enter or leave. The Indians had certain feelings about these old forests; they believed in ancient spirits called Kushtaka; shape shifters that were part man and part otter, and who lured hunters deeper into unknown places, where they vanished and lost their way, wandering in thickening circles of confusion. A place like this, untouched by human commerce, talks to the mind through an ancient tongue; a language both musical and strange.