Above The Valley

Living on the side of a hill, I don't get the mountaintop view that would give me an instantaneous sweep of activities in the valley beside me.

This morning, I woke up around 4 and listened to the forest.  No particularly interesting sounds.

I dozed for an hour.  I woke up and smelled the early morning air, full of transpiring trees and wanderings of night creatures.

I listened again.  Strange croaking sounds.  Quacks.  Creaks.  Groans.  The distant hum of commuter cars.

I sat up in the tent.

My companion rolled over on the air mattress.

We have lived in this tent for a season, deciding to rough it for a few months, enjoying the dramatic changes that follow spring's transition into summer.

Do you live in a deodorant-free society, almost completely unaware of body odour?  Do you live close to the earth, eating what you've grown or caught?

I don't recommend this life for everyone.  If it weren't for my companion, a fellow hiker who has trudged up and down mountains with me, both of us wearing backpacks laden with food and camping gear...

Do you feel an ownership of the land?  Do you give back to the land what you have taken, mixing your compost into the soil?

A cardinal chirps warnings I can't see what about.  Presumably a potential predator walking the forest floor.

All of us trace our ancestry back to people who lived directly off the land, though we might not know when.

I unzip the tent flap, crawl out, stretch for a minute or two and untie our provisions hanging from a tree.

What shall I fix my companion for breakfast?  Trout descended from stock thrown into the river many, many years ago?  Fresh but not completely ripened blackberries?  Bread and honey we bought at the local Mennonite community?

She won't care as long as I fix it.

Today's the day we pack up and move out of this deciduous paradise.  It'll be a hard hike in the heat.  I'll let her sleep a little longer.

Think I'll go down to the river and pray.