Tales from the Hermitage
woodcuts by starchy, all rights reserved
A thick pink mist had rolled up the valley and hung low over my washed out self. Somewhere just above the din of the fast flowing river, a Pileated woodpecker laughed. I had pulled in on myself and sounds from the forest, usually welcomed and loved, now seemed unreal and distant.
The lion encounter had really affected me and I had entered into some kind of weird funk. Except for a few trips to the river to dress and re-soak my eye with cold moss, I hadn’t moved from my vantage point on top the log jam. There wasn’t enough light to move on to the cabin or retreat back to the trailhead anyway. I just sat there coming out of shock while watching the river flow. It was all I could do under the circumstances, and I suppose it was natures way of dealing with trauma?
It was the cold dampness settling in around me, that wrestled me out of my complacency. Everything was seizing up, It was time to get active, make camp and get a warm fire going. Just upstream from the Log jam, a long gravel bar had split the river, and it looked like a good level place to set my tent. If i hurried in the fading light, I might even get a little gold panning done.
Dry driftwood was everywhere, so I hadn’t needed to cut and chop firewood. And with a few scratches of my " flint and steel" into some forest duff, and cotton balls I was able to get a pretty good little fire going.
I carry small cotton balls in a sealed container, that I douse liberally in Vaseline. They make excellent fire starters, and catch a spark well. There is absolutely no need to waste money on store bought fire starters. They light quickly and burn long and steady in any conditions. Tonight I was pressed for time and needed a hot fire quickly, so I added one to my dry tinder.
With the fire safely nestled in a circle of river stones, I then fired up my light, backpacking “bush buddy” stove. Borrowing some coals and twigs from the fire, I transferred them into the stoves housing on the tip of my Buck knife. Within minutes I had a rolling boil going for tea. Ever since I discovered the "Bush Buddy" stove, I never carry anything else. It completely eliminates the need to carry bulky fuel cans and stoves. That unfortunately do end up being left in the woods. They also take up valuable room, and add dreaded weight to the pack.
My tent is a simple one man affair and was up in seconds. I had just enough light to roll up a few logs to set as a heat reflector, and another to lean back against. Then forage for a ton of firewood to last the night.
The fading light of the western sky was red and Lowery, giving the soft river mist an intense and magical pink corona. A frightened pair of Harlequin ducks landed in the pool in front of me, then just as quickly flapped off complaining up the river. The dew was already settling thick and heavy, and was causing the tiny Trout Lilies along the shore, to hang there delicate heads over the water.
Anytime you camp by a creek or river your asking for trouble, its like sleeping beside a noisy highway. Also the water level here, can rise and fall incredibly fast without warning. My little Island in full spring flood would be completely submerged and not a trace of this site would remained. It was late spring now and the river was still dropping, and I was totally amazed at how quickly life re-establishes itself after disaster. The crystalline bar was covered in small new growth and covered in driftwood. It wasn’t long before I had a comfortable camp set up and a blazing fire going. The pristine setting was wonderful, now if only I could find a way to turn the noisy river down. A quiet ambiance of peace had settled over my little camp,and brought me much healing after the intense afternoon.
My eye had stopped swelling, but in my small hand mirror it looked really bad. Most of the left side of my face was badly puffed black and blue. I had boiled up rinse water for the eye in the Billy, and while it cooled in the river I spent an in twilight laying with a cold compress draped over my face. I could feel the rough grains inside and after trying without much success to rinse it with clean water, I simply gave up.
I had to replace the bandage over the gash on my arm as it had become soaked in blood. After re-spraying the wound in disinfectant, I tossed the previous wrappings into the fire. It could probably use a few stitches but that was out of the question in this remote place. I was no Rambo, and not able to stitch it myself. I felt confident that I had done all that I could do, and went about camp business with basically one arm.
Despite the liquid charm of the deep trout pool surrounding me the old miserable feeling of not being able to clearly hear sounds around me crept back in. Reminding me why I had stopped camping directly beside fast flowing rivers. A flicker, my soul bird, not surprisingly few in across the river to the Island. Giving me some comfort with his antics, as he inspected a huge bleached tree root deeply embedded in the beach sand.
I was still quite jittery and was occasionally seeing things that wernt there, and a flicker relieved that fear by taking my mind of my troubles. Every time I looked downstream I kept thinking that a large dark rock jutting from the opposite bank was a black bear, it took some scolding to get past that unreasonable fear. Although after what I had been through I couldn’t really blame myself and I tried cutting myself a little slack. But I never did get over the strange apparition looming on the far bank, and winced in fear every time I looked that way.
Its surprising what you’ll see even with a small fire, when your camped by a river. As I lay there watching the night slowly creep in, a family of Quail across the pool trained down in single file from the forest edge for a drink. A red-breasted merganser speed-boated past me in the dark river pool.
The first star appeared in the little opening between the dark overhanging forest and gave the promise of a clear night of star gazing. While I lay there waiting for the night-show, I was puzzled by the faint sounds of what I could only describe as a baby crying. It was very frustrating trying to make out the cries in amongst the rivers excited babbling. I wasn’t sure if it was the river itself making the sounds or something else? It was unnerving enough to investigate further, donning my LED head lamp, I explored along the bank, stopping to listen every few feet.
The cries grew louder and I was positive now that a baby or a lamb was somewhere in or near the river up ahead. It was all quite unnerving but the beam of light was strong and easily penetrated the dark and mist. Its surprisings how a little beam of light can bring such comfort.
Honing in on the sound I was surprised to catch in the spotlight across the stream a huge rabbit laying on its side. It was this distressed grand daddy rabbit making the awful whining sounds. I wonder if it was caught in a leg hold of some kind? As I waded across the knee deep shallows to get a closer look, I was sure the large bunny would scamper off. I noticed something dark move near its neck, and as I got near I saw that it was a very small weasel. I had mistakenly from the distance mistook it for the rabbits natural coloring.
It was a bazaar sight, the tough little carnivore was four or five times smaller than the rabbit, and obviously had very grand hopes. I couldn’t believe its outright audacity nor the rabbits stupidity, as it was much larger than the weasel. Just by size alone the rabbit had all the advantage and could have easily dislodged the pesky critter if it had a mind too. It was akin to me biting on the neck of a cow.
I had long stopped equating natures oddities to humankind, as it was simply a waste of time. With a few gentle prodding’s from a handy stick, I convinced the little snapping devil to seek easier pray elsewhere. And it begrudgingly scampered off. A few seconds later, the giant rabbit, as if coming out of a deep sleep, saw me and bolted. Unfortunately in the same direction as its little enemy.
I poked the dying embers back into life and stared into the warmth of the fire. All around in the circling black wall of night, strange sounds began to seep into camp. Some ready identifiable, most remained little mysteries, lost and swallowed up in the rivers endless prater. Every once in a while a loud KER-PLUNK came from the deep pool. It sounded like somebody dropping large cement blocks, into the pond off a bridge. I would jump up and quickly shine the light over the pool, every time it happened. But all I ever saw were the ever expanding concentric rings on the misty surface.
I decided to get to the bottom of it, or it would keep me awake all night wondering. After inserting some hot rocks in foil into the bottom of my sleeping bag, I moved upriver from the fire and sat with my flashlight at the ready. I was rewarded within minutes, when I heard another splash near by. Again at first my light caught nothing, but this time I searched longer and to my surprise my light discovered something swimming in my direction. It was a beaver, and he seemed just as interested in my light as I was of him. Until he got a good whiff of my sent, and dove. In the morning when I broke camp, the mystery was solved, when I discovered fresh beaver cuttings everywhere, that I hadn’t seen when setting up in the dim foggy light.
During the night I couldn’t help but think of the damage the cougar could have done to Zibby, had she been with me. Especially on the logs where the big cat had all the advantage. Zibby was fast and nimble on open ground and may have stood a chance there, but I couldn’t be sure. I needed a bigger dog, a fearless and aggressive one that would tree a big cat. Zibby had spunk but a little Jack Russell’s hadn’t the size or backing for that kind of job. I loved Zibby dearly but I knew her limitations. I had seen Irish setter puppy’s for sale, in the vets waiting room. I decided to get one, when I retuned to pick up Zibby. I knew this hunting breed and if I got the right one it would be perfect.
To my surprise I slept like a log. I was able to ignore the multitude of night noises, after I discovered the beavers unique sounds. They splashed about and worked all night making a terrible racket. But thankfully I was tired to care and and needed the sleep. At first light I broke camp, after a hearty breakfast of rolled oats and raisins. After dressing and bathing my eye, I hit the trail to the cabin. I wanted to make the old mans cabin before nightfall, so there was no time to pan the river for gold. It would have to be another time.
After only a hour on the trail my pants were soaking wet from the heavy dew. The trail in this section was badly overgrown, and covered in vines and windfall. Which reinforced my theory, that no one had been here in sometime. I was now convinced the old man wouldn't be around. His old blazes were well marked and high on the trunks of selected trees. Which indicated that he had marked them in winter when the snow was deep. The old doctor was becoming a major puzzle to me now. Doubts about there even being a cabin began to weasel they’re way into my thoughts.
As the terrain changed away from the river the trail began to climb. And we entered a completely different environment and ecosystem. The evergreens thinned giving way to harder woods, like birch and sugar maple. The trekking became easier and I began to make up for the time lost in the earlier slugging.
My Topo map indicated that I would come to a small creek and a succession of small waterfalls and quiet pools. The Doc’s map neglected this feature. It was approaching noon and I decided to rest and eat there. I wondered then if he only traveled in winter, as the small creek would have probably been hidden under snow?
I could hear the water before I could see the strem and with a little hunting and bushwhacking, I was able to clear a place right beside it. An owl called, startling me, as I unpacked my gear. It was the strangest thing at this time of day, especially when I couldn’t recognize the call. After a little searching I caught something big flapping around in the under story. It wasn’t an owl, but a large dove like bird. Later I discovered that it was a Band-tailed Pigeon, which was a first for me. And a way out of its known geographical area. However wildlife cross and ignore mans political borders, and turn up in the oddest places.
According to my “GPS“, I was three-quarters of the way to the cabin sight. It sat tucked in beside a nameless lake, that the old man had dubbed “Stormy Lake." Since there wasn’t anybody around to differ, and since I liked the name, I decided to continue calling it Stormy lake. If the cabin did exist and if I was to continue to come here, I reasoned that I could greatly improve the trail. Cutting at least half a days travel, perhaps more?
A little White breasted nuthatch, announced her territory with her tiny tin horn notes. And readily accepted my offer of sunflower seeds, which she never ate in front of me. But flew off to stash them in secret places, that only she knew about.
The remainder of the trail to the lake was basically down hill, and followed an ancient well worn game trail. Rabbit and white tail deer dropping were abundant. The woods seemed overrun with Spruce Grouse, which denoted a lack of predators in the area. I would have an easy time hunting them for food, if needed later.
When I reached a un-named tributary of talking creek, I knew I was near Stormy lake. The old man had marked this water feature on his map, as a directional change, and my compass swung fifteen degrees to the southeast. I was to follow the little creek until it joined Talking creek, which in turn flowed down to the lake behind his cabin. And was his main source of fresh drinking water. However with my “GPS” marked waypoints, I was able to knock off another two or three kilometers from the hike and shortly I stepped into a sunny open meadow.
At the far end of the grassy meadow, hidden behind a dark silhouetted forest wall, sparkled Stormy lake. It sat shivering in delight between the leafy branches of alder, fir and birch. Then suddenly upon closer inspection, as my eyes adjusted to the dark shadows, I caught the unmistakable shape of a cabin roof. I dropped my pack and stood gaping with mixed emotions, at the old roof. That swayed low and sad like a horses back,It seemed lonely and forlorn with the sad countenance of a drowning man.
starchy [:)
All gratuities will be greatly welcomed
Comments