Know Way
Copyright © Peter C. Hjersman 2010
Right behind our ranch, the hills grew into the mountains. The ranch cuddled the start of the hills, just edging the wilds. Sometimes a cougar or fox would come after the animals and we’d rush out in the sleep of the night to see what the commotion was about. Once everything was settled, I’d stand outside and watch the night. Those stars were a nightly sight, so clear they stood, no reason to hide and nothing hiding them. The breeze through the leaves, the trees standing in the silence. Well, this would sort of settle in, the stars, the trees and me. No matter what happened, I’d head back to bed and sleep like a bunk – still, sound and solid.
Sometimes, I had to get off by myself. To get away from all them chores that ate the day away, from pre-dawn to post-dusk. I’d pack my sleeping bag, a canteen and my knife. That’s all I needed. An-thing else I found in the woods. Now, my knife. It was stone-strap sharp. I’d work it in my spare time, when we’d sit and chat. It was sharp enough to cut a horse hair in two, from end…to…end. I never knew when I might need a knife during ever day chores. Maybe a horse’d get tangled in a rope and start to choke. If the rope were cut faster than a mind can think, the horse would live. Out in the mountains, a close knife was a sharp friend.
So I grabbed my bedroll and headed for the forest. Among the trees, I could hear the earth, feel the woods, and sense ma-self with the forest and them mountains. If I got hungry, there’d be nuts and fruit. Sometimes I’d catch a rabbit. Or…when I came ‘cross a stream, a trout may be waiting. I would ease down, slowly edge up to the water, settle on the bank, slower than a calm heartbeat, reach down into the water and wait–without moving–and let a fish swim into my hand. Gently, I would close my hand, and catch the fish. The bears taught me.
Sitting by the stream and letting the day go by, watching the birds play and eat, see the leaves fall into the water, the animals coming to drink. No rush. Just being there reminded me of being part of this place. I’m no more special than the mountains or any part of it. We breathe the same air and drink the same water, the birds, the trees, and me.
One day, I sat next to this river and waited for the trout to swim into my hand. I could feel it slowly nestle into my fingers, hesitate a few seconds, and then ease into my palm. My fingers swift nicked into the gills and tossed it out. I held this beautiful fish and stood there ‘miring it, its shimmering elegance in ma hand. And thinking how good it would taste. Then…I was not alone.
Slowly, slowly, I turned my head and looked up – was it a man, a bear, or…? I saw a lean, mean hungry wolf a-gazing at me. He was so close I could count the whiskers bristling on his chin. Now I stayed more still than the stones under my boots and looked at that critter staring at me rock hard. He was sizing me up. I saw his ribs. His eyes were still–yet very alive. Those eyes, those unrelenting steel eyes were standing firm – he knew no backing down – they was telling a story faster than his motionless an-tic-i-pa-tion would lead one to believe. His stomach was sore hurting but still had his strength. He was hungry, desperate, and willing to take a risk. We stood there, eye-to-eye. Did he want the fish or me or did it matter? Most likely, he would settle for the easiest food. But even so, as we stared into each other’s eyes, my right hand moved from the fish and slower than a summer breeze through the trees, to my knife.
The longer he looked at me and dint show no sign of leaving, I started to get angry. This is my catch. I spent years learning how to catch fish. What right does this wild beast have to take my food? I spent some hungry nights ’til I learned the way.
The way – his eyes disregarded my anger and threw his own at me – the way. What was I doing in the forest anyway? Was it to prove something? No gun, no four-wheel drive, no beer, no buddies with me. Why was I staring into the eyes of a hungry wolf?
Then I started thinking: this place is nat-shul. The wolf is natural and so is his hunger. If I give him the fish, then all is as it should be. His stomach will sing and so will the forest. If I kill the wolf, this ain’t natural and not necessary. The wolf dies, the forest cries, and I cain’t come back. Slowly, I put the fish down and more slowly backed away. He edged forward, paw after paw, shoulders down, watching me, grabbed the fish, and disappeared faster than I could let out a breath. I put the knife back, and sat to watch the river for a while.
Back to the stream, I put my hand into the flowing water and the biggest, finest trout swam right into my hand.
