Two Rivers
He knew they'd never believe him. Not the way it really was. No. He could never tell that. Even if they did, somehow in the telling it was always cheapened. He'd get that little-bit-sick feeling once the words left his lips. Somehow it was wrong. Wrong to talk about it. He'd want to tell it full and right and make it seen as he saw it, felt as he felt it - but it never was. Never could be. That's not how it worked. And he was learning. People talk things to death - talk the magic right out of them. Better to deal in hard facts, numbers, yes and no. A moose, a bear, and an eagle.
He'd maybe mention the eagle - how it came from the sky - a dark shadow flashing down from the azure blue and the hollow whirrrrr of air passing under the great span of its wings as it crossed the bow of the canoe. He'd speak of the shock of it all, after running the rapids just before, and the standing up, shins against the thwart, to see the rushing water disappear around a left hand bend. Listening to the sound of the water, trying to feel it through the thin skin of the canoe and somehow get the knowing of the run; how it finished. See the unseen.
And then the pull of the current as he entered the drop, the way it gripped with its invisible hand and the way he let go at the same time. After that all he had left was to keep his paddle in the water and stick to the deep channel, keeping an eye for recirculating black pools that signified an eddy and safety if the run proved too dangerous. But it didn't. The current took him, the canoe lurched forward and the jumbled shore of shattered granite, birch and fat cedars rolled by as if on a reel. He hadn't known what to expect though and that made it different. He hadn't known the rapids would end after the bend and deposit him safely at the top of a swampy pond, and he certainly hadn't expected the eagle to come down beside him. Close enough to touch with a paddle. Close enough to feel its wind.
The bear came after that, a few miles downstream as the river widened and almost became a lake but the hills wouldn't let it. They towered on either side of the water, bristling with jackpine and spruce on the left and stark white poplar on the right; he remembered the chattering sound of their leaves as the wind flicked and spun them.
Cutting the water along the right hand bank, he saw the bear through the dog first. Lean, rangy and covered in ragged, off-white polar fur, the dog was more than a dog. It was a dog, just as he was a man, but it was also something other and they were that something together and when the dog saw, he saw. That's the way it had become - but he wouldn't speak of that either.
The dog went still and sat poised, nose, ears, and eyes focused to a point where rain run-off came singing down the hillside on the right bank and there was the bear. He lumbered down along the edge of the tumbling stream, shining a glossy black in his full spring coat. He saw the man and the dog and stopped. His eyes were small and the colour of chestnuts in firelight. He lifted his head and swung it left and then right as he nosed the wind. The air made an ouuf, ouuf sound when it was drawn into his nostrils. He turned full around and padded softly back up the hillside until he was hidden behind the poplars with the white bark and the rustling leaves.
The moose came to him the day before, shortly after he left the little trout creek and joined the big river. The tight, winding course it cut through the muskeg and alder brush had taken the better part of the day to navigate, the creek often bending back upon itself in oxbows that had him paddling two kilometres to make one. He remembered the feeling of his body relaxing into the open space of the big river. It was late afternoon and darkly overcast. The sky, an ominous palette of grey slate, rolled overhead and now and then swirling gusts ran shimmering across the wide surface of the river. The air began to smell heavy with moisture and he thought then that it might rain soon and began to grow anxious to find a suitable place to make camp.
He dipped his paddle deep and pulled at the water in long, powerful strokes that made his back and shoulders burn with the tension. The moose came then, slowly - materializing from the shadowy spires of black spruce and tamarack that lined the shore. Its bristling mane was the colour of tea that was grey with milk and faded into deep chocolate along its haunches. It waded into the shallow water where there were many weeds, its legs making a sploosh-woosh sound as it came in up to its belly. It plunged its head below the surface. He put up his paddle and drifted silently.
It happened then, while the boat was drifting and he and the dog were as still as held breath. The sky opened behind him and the golden light of the setting sun poured in. The sky opened, the moose lifted its head and a hundred brilliant rays struck it like a volley of arrows. The water ran cool and lovely down its face, fell from the drooping muzzle as molten gold. The cool air heavy and pregnant with rain, the gold falling in drops, its ears came forward and it looked at him in the canoe and it happened.
The river split and became two. It did not split as it did in rapids around boulders, but as a reflection folded upon itself. They were the same river, in the same place, stretching ever onward. Deeper. Further. But one was more, its waters flowing inward and invisible and that was the river he now paddled. Because of the moose. Because of the light and the blackness of the sky before. Because of the loveliness of the water as it came down. Always he had been traveling the two rivers but now he knew about it. He had known about it many times before but the knowing had left him. Always it left him - not all at once - but bit by bit. Faded.
He would not speak of this river. This river that was spirit and water both. Nor of the knowing. Nor of how it was all enough. The water, the sky, the dog, the ache in his muscles; the cold, the heat, sunrise, sunset. The moon. Nights where the clouds covered the stars and the darkness swallowed everything. All of it. Enough. Here on this river where everything became more. How it was always like this for him, in time, and how the days that followed were as in a dream.
No, when he told the story there would not be two rivers but just the one. The moose would be just a moose. The bear, Makwa, was not the same as the one from the dream. He would not say that when their eyes met he saw his brother. Nor that he loved the bear and did not fear him. Just that he saw him.
And he would maybe mention the eagle and the whirrrr of its wings as it crossed the bow. The shock of it all. But not the prayer he spoke in his mind or the smudge burned as offering as it flew back up to watch him from the high spindles of a fire-scorched jackpine - or the way the wind that had baffled him all morning fell and rose and changed direction and carried him afterwards.
He would tell only the one story. And they would nod and maybe even get big eyes. They would tell him how spring bear make the best rugs. That it had been foolish to go without a gun for protection.
The moose, finally dissected into colour, antler size and potential quality of meat would be understood.
The eagle, of course, was just hunting ducks and likely more surprised than he was.
And had he heard what Trump did? It may be America but it affects us too.
And so it would fade. The two rivers and the knowing.
It would fade and nothing would be enough again and time would pass until he was just a man who went canoeing and saw a moose, a bear, and an eagle.
I hope you enjoyed the read. These small stories, blogs - whatever they are - come from my heart; I share them out of a passion to create and see others inspired to make their own connection with the Wilderness. If you found value in your time here, and are inclined to do so, you can help keep me writing by buying me a coffee!
About The Author
A bounty of fish from a solo canoe trip down the Makobe River.
For Clint Zold, the pursuit of authentic Wilderness experiences has led him across landscapes both far and wide. Whether paddling the ancient Nastawgan of mystic Temagami, hiking the lonely mountains of the West, or snowshoeing the hunting grounds of his trapping territory in the Arctic Watershed of Northern Ontario - Clint is truly at home in the wild.
Living off-grid on the banks of the Mattagami River; the canoe, axe and snowshoe have become his daily companions in a semi-subsistence lifestyle where food, warmth and water come from the land around him. His passion for Wilderness is only equaled by his desire to share it with others