The Same River Twice: A Memoir

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There is no sun today, only a gray light filtered through the gauze of air. Leafless trees cage the sky. A smattering of snow has dusted the ground, a flurry that lingered. It is enough to transform the woods. The temperature has risen to nineteen and the heat has drawn birds into the boughs of trees. The titmouse is the bravest, the wren the most cheerful. Oddly, the small creatures allow me greater proximity before flight. The large ones — deer, fox, the bears from home-all flee at my approach. The same is true of humanity. When we are small, we let others in close, then begin the gradual pushing away that so often leaves the very old utterly alone.

There is an ancient maple in the woods, long dead but still upright, with a trunk the size of a small car. The tree is rotted, its guts hollow. At the base is an opening big enough to enter. I have taken to sitting inside this tree. No one knows I do this.

I am heading for the maple when my nose finds a scent before my eyes see the cause. It’s the sweetly nauseating smell that, once learned, is always known. I sniff in every direction and gauge the wind. The smell is to the west. I move that way. Animal tracks lead to the site in weaving lines that remind me of the layout of a web. At its center is a mound of clear plastic bags, several of which have been torn open. They are freezer bags containing the skinned carcasses of small game. The work is very precise. Every leg bears a neat cut above the ankle that leaves the paw still furry. Each animal appears to be wearing slippers. A hairless tail lies in the snow like a snake, I remember having read that one percent of all human newborns possess a tiny tail that is quickly clipped and thrown away.

A shift of wind pushes the smell against me and I have the sense of it clinging to my face. The nearest frosty bag resembles an amnion holding a fetus. I walk rapidly away. Half of all pregnancies do not make it to term and sometimes the fetus will die late in the womb, during the second or third trimester. Labor is then induced. The woman endures it, knowing in advance that she is giving birth to a baby already dead.

I stop walking, sick to my stomach, angry at myself for thinking this way, for not being able to dispel the image from my mind. A pale horizontal band shimmers at waist level everywhere I look. When I concentrate on seeing it, the stripe goes away. Curiosity replaces the nausea, and I wonder if I’ve become too isolated, have spent too much time alone in the woods. As I ponder this, the stripe returns. It’s not in the air but on the tree trunks. My eyes have merely supplied the band’s continuance through empty space. Up close, the mark is faint, nearly invisible, a stain on the bark. When I hold my eyes steady and turn my head, I see the line very clearly on all the trees. It is the high-water mark from last spring’s flood.

At the hollow maple, I crouch and crawl inside. Light enters from above, where the fork has split and fallen away. The first time I came in, there were animal prints, but the awful presence of man is enough to keep intruders away. I sit on my haunches like old men at home, weight on my heels, each elbow on a knee. The inner bark of the tree is as desiccated as the dry river mud of summer. From here I can peer into the woods unseen. A woodpecker works a tree nearby, blinking each time its beak strikes wood. If it didn’t, the impact would drive the eyes from its skull.

There is a subtle difference between feeling lonely — that inner peril of the mind — and the simple lack of company that makes me lonesome. Rita takes the edge off both. Perhaps the baby will cut the loneliness further, make me need the woods less. I realize that I’m thinking backwards, that it is the kid who will rely on me. It may never be a friend.

Gunshots echo from across the river, a hunter sighting on a deer. Carrying a weapon into the woods transforms perceptions; one is no longer on equitable ground, sharing time and space. The spear of the necessary hunt has given way to the rifle of sport. I’ve eaten the forbidden possum, snake, coon, and horse, as well as rabbit, squirrel, and deer. All bounty of the woods is welcome at my door. These days, however, I prefer my liaison with nature to be one of peace.

Taking life is as biologically grounded as giving life. Every animal kills to live. Eating fruit, vegetables, and grain is no escape; plants are living things. They have gender and home, suffer when hurt, and attempt to heal themselves. Tree stumps sprout each year, offspring produced by roots still sucking water. I believe that like an amputee whose missing limb aches, the tree knows when a branch is gone.

Leaving the maple is more difficult than entering. I lie on my back, brace my boots against the inner walls, and push myself faceup into the woods. The woodpecker cocks its head and looks at me. When I stand, it flits away, scalloping the air with its telltale flight.

I carefully skirt the pile of animals, then decide against retreat. A father must face everything. I try to open my vision in the way that helped me see the watermark on the trees. I think of the woodpeckers that must have blinded themselves before the species learned to blink.

Live game are using the dead for food, and it occurs to me that this is not a mass grave, or an omen of miscarriage. It is simply the residue of older ways. A trapper has cleared out his freezer for better fare, perhaps a deer. Prairie winters are harsh and he is helping the animals to survive. The pelts gave cash to the trapper, the deer gave him food, and he has returned the favor of the woods. In our own way, Rita and I are engaged in a similar cycle, giving ourselves to the world. After the baby is born, stages of childhood will replace seasons for charting time.

I look back at the hollow maple and nod my head once, glad that no one is here to witness this. I walk out of the woods, my tracks bisecting animal trails in strange geometry. Behind me the woodpecker labors for larvae to survive the season. Ahead, Rita is waiting, very calmly, waiting. She has her own high-water mark to watch. Soon the snow will fly, the color of salt, the smell of life.