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The Feeling
Once into the depths of the forest, among the barriers of alder and willows, buried in the grasses and fireweed, the eyes diminish in power to look around. Now, the more primitive senses of hearing and smell and feeling come alive. I slip deeper inside the colors of Fall, dropping down the hill, and moving along a shelf to the bottomland. Here are more shrubs and thick walls of grass; a place of blind struggle for reaching the stream a half-mile away. Still, the sense of tingling awareness grows, where the ooze and smells of rotting leaves reveal the ditches and canals of the beaver dam. I search for a crossing, pushing through the willows and tangled mess beneath my feet. The logs are slippery, old, and half immesed in the swamp, but offer a better way than hip deep in the methane smell of a bog. Beyond is a open area between the fallen cottonwoods and alder runs. But this opening is filled with devils club: they look like a weathered sea of tossing yellow-brown leaves, mounted on grey stalks of thorns, tearing at each step. But after awhile, my body finds the way, moving carefully through less painfull spaces, and finally reaching the stream. On the bank, a lone blue flower peeks through dried leaves; a Mathusela that has lived beyond its peers, who have long since disappeared. At least the openess of the stream with its gravel bars is a welcome sight. And here dead fish are scattered up and down the length and sides. The strong aroma of dead fish attracts birds and insects to the feast. But still I see no sign of bear. Because hunting season is here, the bears perhaps have gone elsewhere, into more hidden places. Meanwhile in the stream, lines of dog and silver salmon, now near death, swim feebly in the current or settle into pools, waiting for the end. One such pool attracts me. It's a deep hole dug out by the constant motion of water from two sides. I think to myself, " This is the place. Here is where the trout will be." I can feel it as I cast out the line and hook into yawning hole. The current takes the spinner to the spot where the trout feeds. The fish strikes, surfaces and jumps. Then I reel it in onto the gravel beach. Now I have my fish and can proceed to the mouth for a look. I start off again, rounding a corner where a couple of hundred yards downstream, where a junction meets, a moose carcass lies in the middle of the stream, washed over by water. Nearby, a raven flies off, wings filled with air and sound, but still no sign of a bear. The carcass can be a danger if a hungry beast is guarding it. I stop, look, listen, smell and wait. Nothing. Then I continue, moving around the corners wide, looking down each long straight-a-way carefully. Now, I come to a narrow run. On both sides a thickness of alder froms a green wall. But I know, just a few feet inside, a bear trail winds down a pathway in the brush. I take this route to avoid making noise. The afternoon is warm now, but the heat of summer is gone, especially when a cloud comes between the sun and land below. However, the golds of leaves and reflected blues of sky makes the chill seem like an accent from a painted scene. I stop and sit on a fallen log to take in the beauty and color of this place. The sound of the water is relaxing to the mind. Even the warmth that comes and goes, the smell of dead fish--mixing like a gourmet recipe of delight-- is a rare dish indeed. Soon the mood changes and I head on down, along turns and shaded pools, until I reach the mouth. Here, the river joins up, pouring a silty mix where both meet. In the wide sweep of the river plain, my eyes can see and feel again the open spaces. The clouds above the mountains, mattress soft, hang rim-lit in the sun, and seem content to pass the hours like contented cows against a blue-meadowed sky. But further south, an ominous strand of fingered clouds, seem to grown in size. I look once more over the silver waters, up the rivers course, and high up into the glacial heights, where rock towers and ribbed sides look small to the naked eye. After a long moment, I put on my pack and gun, and with fishing pole in hand turn back and return to the beaver dam. A feeling passes over me. I see a route through the tangled jungle: fields of ferns in fallen brown heaps, now an open pathway through the bottom land. I move faster now, easing up the slopes, avoiding entanglements. Soon I am back to the road. The day has given me a sense of contentment, of being touched by the elements of water, air, and earth. But still, another crossing of moments remains. Along the road, with the sun angled low to the horizon, a meadow and lake are lit up in with a golden passage of color. I stop. Then, I get out and look out into the distance near the margins of the meadow. Something moves in the grass. The shape grows larger. Then I know, it's a bear. Funny, I think, that most of the day when I was in a place where a bear might be, I have found it by surprise near the road. I watch and click pictures of the final act.
Once into the depths of the forest, among the barriers of alder and willows, buried in the grasses and fireweed, the eyes diminish in power to look around. Now, the more primitive senses of hearing and smell and feeling come alive. I slip deeper inside the colors of Fall, dropping down the hill, and moving along a shelf to the bottomland. Here are more shrubs and thick walls of grass; a place of blind struggle for reaching the stream a half-mile away. Still, the sense of tingling awareness grows, where the ooze and smells of rotting leaves reveal the ditches and canals of the beaver dam. I search for a crossing, pushing through the willows and tangled mess beneath my feet. The logs are slippery, old, and half immesed in the swamp, but offer a better way than hip deep in the methane smell of a bog. Beyond is a open area between the fallen cottonwoods and alder runs. But this opening is filled with devils club: they look like a weathered sea of tossing yellow-brown leaves, mounted on grey stalks of thorns, tearing at each step. But after awhile, my body finds the way, moving carefully through less painfull spaces, and finally reaching the stream. On the bank, a lone blue flower peeks through dried leaves; a Mathusela that has lived beyond its peers, who have long since disappeared. At least the openess of the stream with its gravel bars is a welcome sight. And here dead fish are scattered up and down the length and sides. The strong aroma of dead fish attracts birds and insects to the feast. But still I see no sign of bear. Because hunting season is here, the bears perhaps have gone elsewhere, into more hidden places. Meanwhile in the stream, lines of dog and silver salmon, now near death, swim feebly in the current or settle into pools, waiting for the end. One such pool attracts me. It's a deep hole dug out by the constant motion of water from two sides. I think to myself, " This is the place. Here is where the trout will be." I can feel it as I cast out the line and hook into yawning hole. The current takes the spinner to the spot where the trout feeds. The fish strikes, surfaces and jumps. Then I reel it in onto the gravel beach. Now I have my fish and can proceed to the mouth for a look. I start off again, rounding a corner where a couple of hundred yards downstream, where a junction meets, a moose carcass lies in the middle of the stream, washed over by water. Nearby, a raven flies off, wings filled with air and sound, but still no sign of a bear. The carcass can be a danger if a hungry beast is guarding it. I stop, look, listen, smell and wait. Nothing. Then I continue, moving around the corners wide, looking down each long straight-a-way carefully. Now, I come to a narrow run. On both sides a thickness of alder froms a green wall. But I know, just a few feet inside, a bear trail winds down a pathway in the brush. I take this route to avoid making noise. The afternoon is warm now, but the heat of summer is gone, especially when a cloud comes between the sun and land below. However, the golds of leaves and reflected blues of sky makes the chill seem like an accent from a painted scene. I stop and sit on a fallen log to take in the beauty and color of this place. The sound of the water is relaxing to the mind. Even the warmth that comes and goes, the smell of dead fish--mixing like a gourmet recipe of delight-- is a rare dish indeed. Soon the mood changes and I head on down, along turns and shaded pools, until I reach the mouth. Here, the river joins up, pouring a silty mix where both meet. In the wide sweep of the river plain, my eyes can see and feel again the open spaces. The clouds above the mountains, mattress soft, hang rim-lit in the sun, and seem content to pass the hours like contented cows against a blue-meadowed sky. But further south, an ominous strand of fingered clouds, seem to grown in size. I look once more over the silver waters, up the rivers course, and high up into the glacial heights, where rock towers and ribbed sides look small to the naked eye. After a long moment, I put on my pack and gun, and with fishing pole in hand turn back and return to the beaver dam. A feeling passes over me. I see a route through the tangled jungle: fields of ferns in fallen brown heaps, now an open pathway through the bottom land. I move faster now, easing up the slopes, avoiding entanglements. Soon I am back to the road. The day has given me a sense of contentment, of being touched by the elements of water, air, and earth. But still, another crossing of moments remains. Along the road, with the sun angled low to the horizon, a meadow and lake are lit up in with a golden passage of color. I stop. Then, I get out and look out into the distance near the margins of the meadow. Something moves in the grass. The shape grows larger. Then I know, it's a bear. Funny, I think, that most of the day when I was in a place where a bear might be, I have found it by surprise near the road. I watch and click pictures of the final act.
Awesome bear shot and love the story.
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