Lions Mane

It was mid-summer in the Ozarks.. a still night by the river. The fire had burned down to coals, and the moon was just peeking over the towering bluff to the East. The sound of the running water was the background to a lone whippoorwill. Somewhere downstream, a distant bullfrog croaked at irregular intervals.

I had been on the river for 7 days. No cell phone or computer to distract from the continuous miracle of nature. I’d been keeping a journal however, writing down observations and thoughts, meandering like the river. It seemed a good way to mark the miles.. the eagle from the day before.. the unwinding sadness of losing my love the year before. I remembered how she felt more like home than any place I’d ever been. The smells, touch, and contours of her body. The rhythm of her breath and pulse syncopated with my own. I thought I might reach some deeper understanding of how we failed one another. Maybe a song would emerge to express my deep love and bottomless sadness around our parting.. but nothing had come save random lines and half finished poems.

I was running out of food however, and while I could live on the fish I was catching, hooking a bag of coffee was out of the question. I turned in around midnight, and slept like the log my tarp was pitched beside.

The next morning, I woke and stirred the fire back to life, boiling water for the last of his oats and a bag of tea hiding in the bottom of his duffel. Looking upriver, I paused to see a canoe cutting through the fog, turning towards my campsite. A lone paddler pushed a few hard strokes and screeched up on the gravel bar, a few feet away. It was an older man with pepper grey hair and blue eyes. He looked familiar, but i couldn’t place him.

“You’re up kind of early this morning.” I said to the man. “Pull up a log if you care to visit”
He nodded and crab walked out of the boat and onto shore..
“Thought i’d try to make the confluence today. I wanted to get an early start”.
He sat down on the log beside my camp and pulled out his smoke pouch.
As he rolled, i stirred some oats into a pot. “Want a bowl?” i asked.
He shook a no and finished rolling, setting it aside to dry.
“The state lifted the moratorium” he deadpanned.
“Nothing surprises me anymore” i replied.
We both understood it was just a matter of time before another swine cafo would come in and set up shop, seeping and dumping their toxic waste into the river.
“I don’t think i can spend another lifetime fighting a losing battle against the ag folks.”
I nodded and he continued..
“What say we just keep on paddling down this river.. hit the White and then the Mississippi.. maybe pull off in New Orleans and stay awhile?”
“Ha! Sounds like a fun adventure, but i don’t think my critters would take it so well.. nor my neighbors who’d be saddled with their care.”
“How’d you end up with a family of four leggeds?” he asked.
“It’s a long story. Suffice to say they are happy to stay so long as i feed em. Women are a bit more demanding.”
He lit his smoke and i ate my breakfast as we sat with a break in the conversation.

After a few minutes he spoke again.. “One of these days, we’re gonna be rocks in the river. This ole world will fold us into her ancient body and carry on her journey through space and time. Until then, we best make the best of our days here.”..

I looked at him hard. Then i knew..
He field stripped his smoke and let the rest go. Got back in his boat and i helped him push off.
“Thanks for stopping by Mr. Carter.. maybe one day i’ll get over to Georgia for a visit.”
“No need to look for me there anymore” he replied. I’m back where i came from.. this river, these trees, this easy breeze.. you’ll find me here “.

He paddled on downriver.. the morning fog lifting into the soft light of a new day.
~~~