The sun just poked through a heavy mass of dark, thick clouds. It's
so raw and so very sweet on this lake. The warmth is so appreciated,
soaked up on a cellular level, but it's warm regardless of the sun
appearing, as though the ground and air hold the heat longer than
other landscapes I've found myself in. The water is now a bluer shade
of green, but the thin line of turquoise still delineates the
mountains from the weather on the water.
Three mountain ranges converge on the shores of this lake. Glaciers
meet both sand dunes dispersed amongst pine forests and coastal
rainforest. Glacial melt-off slowly seeps into warm waters as the sun
begins its ascent. Wild horses, grizzlies, wolves, cougars, lynx,
caribou, moose, and salmon all dwell here together. It's a very
pristine and important place, and it's one of the last.
The first night out we made love. The moon was waxing, and we were
still at the head of the lake at the authorized campground. Off in
our tent, tucked off in the trees, bodies weary from spending all day
in the cramped back cab of a pickup, our fingers and toes caressed
and entangled one another. His touch smoothing out all of our
wrinkles, mine attempting to fill in all the holes. Comforting and
cradling, and calling each other home.
Every evening after we were privy to the longest sunsets I had ever
seen. They would last for three hours, and would span the colour
spectrum from blue to hot pink and deep red. And just as certain, as
we watched the day's final light fade into grey, we would turn around
to see the full moon raise her moon face over Mount Stupendous for us
to have light again. And in the space between the light disappearing
only to be reflected back to us, the loons would call. I love that
sound. Wooden flute-like and eery. I've only ever heard them when
everything else is silent.
That Wednesday, our fifth day out, we held a ceremony. It was the
perfect day. The bluest of skies, a slight breeze, and warm, not hot.
I woke feeling extremely content. The sun trickled down through the
trees in front of our tent. Dreamy-like. Ethereal. The perfect tone
to walk the rest of the day to. This morning I only sip coffee
interspersed with sips of cactus. Ten small gulps, and I'm in. I've
committed. The sun is warm despite the cool wind. We all lean on
large, warm trees on the tumbled pebble beach. We have all drunk, and
we have all gagged and cringed. It's an awful acrid taste. A
fundamental property of the plant that keeps the juice sacred.
Medicine. The next twelve hours will have our inhibitions, fears, and
focus all compartmentalized, slotted just off to the side, so that we
are left, unguarded, to unabashedly and authentically experience
life.
All day we played on the dry finger that lay behind our camp. There
the Douglas firs held the trees. They were huge, these Firs, and
their arms often supported up to three large wind-fallen trees.
Mother Teresa's, or womanizers, either is sweet to envision. We
slowly followed animal trails and slowly drank in the silence. I felt
dehydrated of this way of being. Thirsty for spirit and connection to
the wild. Then we found a grizzly bed, a depression scooped out by
God's claws and lined with soft pine needles. It was large enough for
either of us to curl up in, and we did. My love first, then I. You
could see the lake from the bed, and knew that God had had that in
mind when making it. Lying there, in the hollow, listening to the
turquoise water, gazing at the weather on the surface of the lake, I
felt him.
And there was more. On and on we explored. Following this trail,
then that. Keeping our heightened silence. Celebrating it. We find a
sweet fox den, and then caribou tracks, then moose. We listened to
the short-wave broadcasts all around us; we knew which trail to
follow, and which to respectfully turn away from. We experienced
being watched and followed. I'm not sure I've ever felt like such an
animal. Never felt so much like myself.
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