The winter wasn't easy. I could explain that on many different levels, but I'll leave it at the surface level: I allowed myself to fall into a rut. I lost sight of who I was for a while, and I simply went through the motions of waking up, feeding myself, going to work, feeding myself, and sleeping. Granted, there were some great games of bananagrams in a dank bar nestled in the basement of a moderately sketchy hotel, some wintery walks in the February rain, and good conversations over a hot cup of tea or a cold beer. And there were friends. Yet I still allowed myself to fall into a rut, a rut from which I've been eager to climb out.
I've spent half a month on Admiralty Island this spring, and I've already noticed a remarkable change in my disposition. Living outside again, allowing the wind and rain to soak me as thoroughly as the springtime sunshine. Slowing my pace down and reading a book or two a week. Writing, thinking, and coffee drinking (of course). By April and early May, my mind was fairly frazzled and moving at an unconnected, flaky pace somewhere between banana-sluggish and Mach 1. However, the past few weeks in the woods have allowed me to slow my pace down, to unwind a few of the mental cobwebs and birdsnests and approach things at a more reasonable pace. This, in turn, has allowed me to slowly inch toward the clarity and peace I've known before. I can only assume a few more months in the woods will expedite this return to clarity.
I re-read The River Why last week. Somewhere near the middle of the book, Gus took a walk up the Tamanawis River for no reason other than to take his body and his mind for an indefinite hike. During his walk, he was reminded of a tale during which a young man took a similar journey and reached an unanticipatedly profound level of peace. After several days and nights of contemplating and sleeping on the ground next to a fire, he sat on a stone near his smoldering coals as a a few animals approached and investigated him, including a bear. All of the animals understood the peace he had reached, and after a brief investigation, left the man alone. Although I haven't returned to that level of peace, I couldn't help but feel a happiness when several Admiralty animals reminded me of the tale. Paddling in Windfall Harbor late one night, I was startled nearly out of my kayak when a humpback surfaced and trumpeted boisterously within 40 or 50 yards of me. The air was still and tranquil enough to hear the whale's voice echo off the surrounding mountain walls. The whale continued to surface near me as I made my way toward the shore, and eventually we headed in seperate directions. A few days later, sitting on the beach, two Sitka blacktail deer came prancing down the shoreline. As they neared us, they became curious. We sat motionless as the deer inched closer and closer, sniffing like curious bloodhounds and analyzing our shapes, sizes, and smells from 20 feet away. If we had moved, the deer would have fled immediately. But we sat as the deer investigated for ten minutes or more, finally concluding that we were alright. And eventually, of course, we crossed paths with a few bears. Some familiar, others not. Although never complacent around brown bears, it was a subtle sense of personal freedom to again be out in the open with wild, undiscriminating animals, reading their body language and responding accordingly. We let the bears do what they needed to do as we blended in with the landscape. A mature male clammed within 50 yards of us, and a familiar old sow and her cub meandered within 20 yards. The wind beat us, the rain beat us, and the sun beat us. Ravens cackled, gulls croaked, and the water provided calm seas as often as choppy. I smiled.
It's good to be back outside.
Ol' honey paws slowly moving from point A to point B in the hot June sunshine.
Our girl Mocha, looking robust and healthy in the early months of the season.
Mocha last fall, at nearly the same location as the above photo. She looks a bit larger in the photo from this year, but much of that is the remnants of her heavy winter coat. Despite these photos, she was much more heavy-in-the-belly last fall than she is this spring. After a summer full of salmon, she'll be back to her bigger ways in no time.
Chino, Mocha's yearling cub appearing healthy and shy.
A mature boar keeping a casual eye on us as he sniffs the tide flats for more clams.
