Seeing the Forest for the Trees

Today marks my first official day of 'weekend', that strange bookmark that happens in our unnaturally structured lives. And yet I am in love with it. I am appreciating the amount of freedom I have in this newfound stability.
I took the dog out this morning to one of the many amazing bits of forest and beach and ocean that abound in the place I live. Maybe 'we', as a general population sometimes take it for granted that we live in this beautiful spot. I wandered in wide circles through the forest trails of Garry Oak and Arbutus, watching Kimik in his quest for all that moves, darting through the forest, finding things to dig and sniff and occasionally chase.

There is a strange groundedness that has overtaken me of late, as a friend pointed out, of not looking much forward or back, of just being in this moment of my life and seeing it for all that it contains. I have experienced an unexpected kind of landing, another one of those times when timing and my own seemingly directionless path find me arriving at a destination that feels like the right one. A destination only predictable through hindsight; if I look back over the past 15 or more years I can clearly see the threads I have been weaving together, almost unknowingly, over time. How they've become something with a form and pattern. If I happen to look forward, I can only imagine the possibilities.

Each pause to notice is like sowing a seed along the way. It seems like such a small thing, to relent even for a second or two in the pushing forward, the questing that we do in life. To stop wanting for something that is not here yet, or anymore, to see that what is here is worth noticing. If I stop to see things fully I am reminded that everything is contained within a moment.

We are beginning to drift towards the darker days of winter. But today I am attuned to the clarity of the fall light, the way the sun catches and mingles with the crisp air and how the brown leaves rustle underfoot. As I moved through the forest this morning I noticed the texture of the cool-warm breeze, the way the breath of convection has a way of setting loose the smells of dried grasses and moss. I can almost feel the gathering of energy in the trees, as they abandon their outward growth, and begin to set store for the deepening work of winter.

Simplicity

One of my favourite things about backpacking is it's simplicity. This summer, I worked a fair bit on the ocean, paddling sea kayaks in beautiful and disparate sections of the BC coast. A couple of weeks ago I was offered the chance to get out to a place I had never been. It involved a long drive, a water taxi ride and an 8-day return paddle to where I was to leave my car. My sea kayak is not big, and I often comment that it's good thing I'm a backpacker too since my habit is most often to leave the kitchen sink at home. However, most sea kayaks (even mine) have space to fit enough stuff to furnish a  small bachelor apartment (ok...maybe a slight exaggeration), and so we have a tendency to fill them up with much stuff on our journeys on the ocean. Added to that the logistics of vehicles, trailers, water taxis and all the trappings of moving our boats and gear to the start of a trip can be none too simple. I have wheeled a small fleet of kayaks onto an overbooked ferry only to have one nearly smushed under a Greyhound bus and another needing to be loaded onto the roof of a strangers' car in order to make sure all the boats ended up making the trip. Needless to say, kayaking can be a complex and not so cost-efficient endeavour (don't get me wrong - it can be, I've certainly been known to throw the boat on the car and go to the closest put in for a day or multi-day paddle without much of a plan). Backpacking on the other hand has a simple and brutish elegance; an ethos of 'less is more', all our needs transported on our backs by the grace and balance of our bodies. One foot in front of the other.

As it turns out, the forecast for my 8 day sea kayak journey was looking a wee bit too windy and the likelihood of getting windbound out on an island for at least the first 3 of my available 8 days was high. But last week, my about-to-be-full-time-employed feet were itchy for an adventure. So the day before my planned departure I threw together a plan B. My pack, basic gear, some simple food thrown together from summer roadkill* and my boots were in the car in a matter of a couple of hours and off I went. Still craving some ocean time, I headed for a section of coast which holds no small measure of memories and magic for me.

I appreciate the simplicity of this process - and the luxury of having the resources of skill and freedom that make this easy for me. It feels less like an epic adventure and more like a return home; to a mode of travel that feels welcoming, comfortable and easeful. There is also an element of this stretch of coast which feels a bit like visiting ghosts - but the good and familiar kind. Over six days I moved at my own pace - a luxury that is notable as I am often in these places moving at the speed of the collective, and attending to the needs of others. I covered ground quickly when it felt right, and also spent a few leisurely afternoons at campsites arrived at early in the day. I read my book, drank tea, watched the surf, scanned for whales.

When moving, I often paused and noticed the small things that appeared along my path. The way gull feathers gathered water droplets from the morning fog on the many-textured beaches, or how the long greeny-brown strands of uprooted bull kelp that washed up on the sand had somehow tied themselves up in
knots. The way the sun and cloud and ocean water conspired with sand and rock to create a certain kind of dark reflective light on a certain morning, in a certain place. I slept one night in a sandstone amphitheatre, put to sleep by the resounding boom of dumping surf, lulled by the sounds of the receding tide sucking itself back to sea, tumbling and reorganizing the cobble beach. I sat in the non-silence of this wild coast, a campsite to myself for once, stoking a small fire and watching the sun set; only for a moment feeling very alone at all.

I was reminded of the power of these simple things. The way the sea can shift and wear at the most unbreakable stone and render them more beautiful with each passing year. That we are just passing through, our lives and petty dramas far less important than we can ever imagine in the grand scheme of time and nature. That all the things that catch our attention or get passed unseen along the way hold more secrets than we can comprehend; if we just pause a moment longer we may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of something magical. The smallest details can sometimes hold the most valuable gifts, and the simple things can be the most profound.

 *'Roadkill' is an affectionate term used for leftover trip food that guides/instructors often scrounge up after work contracts.

Remnants

It's been a good week, a good couple really, but this one in particular has held up some good news. I have a lot of freedom right now, made more sweet by an impending rootedness, as a few things I have been working on have come to fruition quickly and somewhat unexpectedly. I had an inkling September would be a month to 'stay put' and as things have unfolded it is good that I have. Life is about to change some, and there will be adjustments, but it feels good, like I am on the right path. I have trusted that the tides and winds know what they're doing and my timing has been good - I have felt steered towards my current trajectory, my hands only resting lightly on the wheel.

A bit more than four years ago, in the aftermath of my fathers' death, I drove myself home, from east to west across the wintertime highways. A few very notable things happened on that drive, one of which was a stop that I took at the woodland property my family had owned for over 30 years. During my fathers decline into dementia, we had sold it, over 200 pristine acres of hardwood forest, ponds, marshes and hundred year old farmstead long reclaimed by wild things. The cabin, originally a small one room log building had been expanded in our time there, but remained off the grid, heated by wood and powered by the sun. Snowshoes, feet and a beautiful cedar strip canoe were the vehicles of choice for us; my dad reviled recreational vehicles of any kind. My stop there, in the dead of winter 2013 was difficult; the property had been opened up, once shaded by hardwoods the winding and bumpy driveway had become a wide swath of flatness. New buildings had been put up, brutally carved out of the forest - places to store big machines used to further flatten and carve out pieces of the Earth. Skidoo tracks laced the clearings, the dead hides of animals were pinned to the walls inside. It felt a little like my own personal Narnia had been pillaged and turned into a logging camp.

There is also a story that I could tell about a wolf on the long road west, but I will save that for some other time. A very few know it already.

That year was a harsh one for me, a war zone of death and griefs, although also it also contained some of the truest beauty as well. The brightest and the darkest of times co-mingling. Since then I am  aware that this period of my life has been about recovering parts of myself - along a very crooked path, and not without casualties of it's own, but a recovery nonetheless. In these years I went back to a life where much of my work involved being in the field, time on oceans and rivers and mountains. That kind of life has a way of slowing you down, and I think it is in those places and times of stillness, of being 'unplugged' and caught up in the rhythms of self propelled travel that the soul gets a chance to catch up to our body. Planes and trains and automobiles simply move too fast for the spirit to keep up (so I've heard), and so we lose parts of ourselves along the way of this modern existence. For me it has been a time of making mistakes and being unsure but trying anyway, of not knowing whether I am on the right track or not. I have been a party to some messes. But the fog is slowly lifting and I am learning how to surrender a little bit more to the forces that move me forward. In all of it I keep finding pieces of myself along the way, sometimes small and barely noticeable, others profoundly solid and beautiful. I have taken them up, a feeling like I am re-becoming what is rightfully me. Finding a wholeness that only existed before I arrived to this lifetime.

Tomorrow I am making a return to a place where I believe I will find some more of these remnant shards. To spend 6 days solo along a stretch of coast I first travelled when I was 20. I have this thought that I might find something there, something of the simplicity and forgiveness that exists before mistakes are made. A return to something simpler. Where I might find that I am not broken after all, but have simply been wandering the wilds, untethered, for a time.

Tuesday Morning

This could be the first of many days of freedom, of unstructured and creative time, or it could be a week that marks an end to that and the start of a new kind of routine. A life of consistency - something I both fear and welcome. I am that contradiction, embodied. I come alive in the moments on the river, like yesterday, finding flow in every paddle stroke. Low water rapids barely necessitating more than a switch of tilt. I can also see that this kind of freedom can be enabled by a kind of steadiness, routine; staying-putedness. Being in place.

At the moment, I am enjoying this slow morning, one of my favourite things. Keeping myself on a diet of screen-free time for the first hour at least of each day, drinking my coffee without distraction. Gazing out the window today at this hazy (smoke-filled) air that hovers in the city, between buildings and over the harbour. Doing nothing but that.

I think about walking the dog at the lake a bit later, writing something (chapter 1 in process), possibly going to the museum (artist's date).  Cleaning the car of sand and salty debris, a task still waiting for me in the aftermath of my return from the ocean. This is a good life. A short phone call from a friend as she drove this morning, young baby in tow, our conversation splitting the moments between cries. The definition of love, her sleepless nights, and all the imperfections of a life fully and honestly lived.
There is a strange but welcome peace for me today. A sense of forgiveness - of all the things, myself included, because this is where it starts - which feels a little like emerging from a fog, or being suddenly unshackled from my own (mis)perceptions. Allowed to move forward again. Knowing that all is not lost, that I am loved and able to love in return. Words...understanding how they can have the appearance of keeping us stationary, committed as they are to permanence, but can really be about unravelling what is stuck, relinquishing my ideas to freedom and flow. All things pass.

Photo Cred: ?? Not sure, spring day on Beaver Creek, circa 2006?

Yesterday those of us who were on the river just let it take us, the water low enough to funnel our boats on a swift course mostly free of obstacles. Each subsequent wave allowing us to bounce off the shoreline rocks and over the deepest channel. All that was needed was to trust in the balance of things, keep our paddles in the water and catch whatever eddies appeared on the way.