River's Edge

I knew a guy once; his name was Nick Rivers. He showed me a story that I didn’t believe at the time, but it helped fill the space I found myself in. Thinking back to that day, I can see where I was, and where he was coming from, what he was attempting to tell me by his silence:

I was living at the time along the Salmon River. It is a place as far from reality as I could get. I guess using the word living, would be a stretch. I was existing, escaping, all the imperfectness of a world I had nothing to do with creating, contributing to, or so I felt at the time. 

I had always found peace in the out of doors. The trees, mountains, rivers, lakes, and the sounds, or mostly the lack of them. We have become so immune to sound we fail to rally against it, and yet it is a cancer that eats away at our humanity. We have become mesmerized by its sounds, no longer finding annoyance but the inevitable acceptance of the fate cancers deliver.

Nick Rivers lived above the river in a T-pee he’d contrived from the remnants of a logging operation, and tarps that had wandered off with a little help, in search of a new purpose for their existence. He, like me, found solitude to be a friend keeping the idea of loneliness, from inserting itself into privacy.

We would run into one another on occasion; usually having to do with trespassers, people, not animals. Even though the land did not technically belong to us, we both agreed it belonged more to us, than it did them. Public, we both agreed, did not mean exploitation or disrespect, while we weren’t looking.

Storms, when alone, bring out the necessity of cooperation, when help is required, and is in the best interest of both parties. The past winter found both of us caught in its net of, or should say lack of, preparation. 

Complacency accompanies expectation, in that normalcy dissolves into expected consistency, and that can be dangerous when taken for granted. Such was that winter, and the sudden turn from normalcy, accompanied by several feet of wet heavy snow. We found ourselves no longer self-exiled, but excommunicated from our expectations of survival. 

Nick made his way to my small cabin as the snow began to fall. We marveled at the expanded beauty, extolled its virtues, discussed its uniqueness, but accepted it as one of nature’s surprises, that is intended to awaken us from the hibernation of consistency and expectation. And all without words.

The river runs by my door. Its screams as it is slashed by the jagged rocks, is a constant reminder that life moves forward, whether we wish it to or not, and that we have forgotten how to listen.

Nick had worked on the railroad for most of his life. He told me he had come to the mountains to die. I found it an admirable goal, although hopefully not an immediate one. He was a quiet man; took me several years before he told me his name. The information he was willing to provide was most often found in the reflection in his eyes, the lines in his face, and the slight stance of his lips. It was all that was needed for the most part. I talked, mainly to myself, for myself, and he listened. A symbiotic relationship if there ever was one.

I had made some stew that day in a cast iron kettle I’d salvaged from an old mining camp. I had learned over the years what was available from natures grocery. I had come to an understanding with the other animals that shared my existence. I would leave them alone, if they would leave me alone. Compatibility is underrated. It not only provides a means of empathy, but understanding, and an opportunity to practice understanding.

By the time we had finished our stew, the snow had begun to accumulate. Nick insisted he be off before the storm intensified. He appreciated the reality that I had room, for only myself and thoughts. I attempted to coax him into staying until the snow subsided, but he only feigned a smile, and walked up river. 

There are stories about animals, elephants, and dogs, that know when their time has come. They follow their need to oblige fates call and wander off to find their tomorrow just over the next hill, where the quiet is so loud you can actually hear it.

I enjoy the water. Sitting on my small porch, the snow falling, a sense of Deja Vu left over from the previous day, lingering in my thoughts.  I hear the sounds I have left behind. I could only think of what there was, what there is, and what will come. It all seems so unimportant in my globe of falling illusion being shaken by the God of destiny, just to see if anyone is paying attention.

I must have fallen asleep, coaxed from reality, into that realm of disbelief we call us, and into that state where excuses for escape, are ratified by experience. I don’t know how long I was away, but I awoke to a silence that was abnormal. Not because it was different, but because it existed. I no longer heard the waters shrieks, the winds cries, the nights screams, but nothing. It was as if I’d lost my hearing, and then…

I do not believe in spiritual provocation. I believe Spirits have far better things to do than interfere in my singular existence, and yet, something was calling me. A spiritual tooth ache, that could only exist in this neverland.

I believe it was the cold that drove me from my Nirvana into the wilderness of the present. In the latent stillness and silence I heard his voice. The words, not unlike him, brief, exact, direct. I could see his face in the mist, the reflection of the parting skies in his eyes, his inquisitive brow now turned a taught disregard for worry, blank, and the smile. Not really a smile, more like an indication that he knew, and he wanted me to know. “Goodbye,” the words echoing in the silence like a tree rebelling against below freezing temperatures, that dip towards death.

Looking at the rushing water, I saw him riding a log towards a tomorrow I could only guess at, believe in. He didn’t wave, but looked ahead with a sternness; not unlike him. I believe it was then I understood that no matter what, we are all we have when it comes to that time, when we must ride our own log, alone, towards a tomorrow of silence. Only our hopes to provide a vision of expectation and escape, from the inevitability of existence.