A Sigh, A Vigil; Algonquin Park

                He leans over the counter, bringing himself closer to the ranger. Hard to tell if this is arrogance, or just him being himself. Pulls his Gucci sunglasses down the bridge of his nose so he can stare at her over the rims. Arrogance, then.

                “What’s your most famous trail?” he barks out. Peacock hair, Italian leather loafers to match his shades, DKNY denim. He doesn’t fit in here, shouldn’t. Here, with the ghost of Tom Thompson, the memory of voyageurs and railroad men. The wolves and bears. Not for him, this place, should not be. Took forty five minutes to fight the gridlock at the West Gate. A teeming horde belies this thought. As if Markham has vomited its contents onto highway 60, making the Park a sort of Nature Disneyland. So many humans looking to “get back to the wild” that they have pushed the wild away. This is Thanksgiving at the Park. Two-legged lemmings staggering under the weight of camera lenses trekking along the shoulder of 60. Some don’t even bother with the walking, undoing windows to take snapshots as they whiz by. Not for you, this place, not for any of you, a voice wants to scream out. But it is, it is for them now. Not now for the ghosts and memories, the wolves nor bears. It is all cameras, tourists, blazing autumn hues, diesel fumes and auto horns; Algonquin Park with the timbre of the downtown core. Sad, so sad. The ghosts could weep at this sight.

                “It depends,” the female ranger tells the peacock in metropolitan feathers. “How long do you have to spend out on a trail?”

                “Two hours.” Seriousness in his tone. Not kidding, then. Laughter now. The voice that wanted to scream giggles instead. Two hours, to experience the Park. To see it, breathe it in. Feel it. In suede Gucci loafers. This absurdity feels surreal, like a Camus hero fighting the sun on an Algerian beach. What brings anyone here now?

                The tangle of tourists lining up to photograph the trees from the same vantage point, one click and shuffle at a time, creates anger. It simmers, lodged deep down. Takes an hour on the back country trail to leave. No tourists now, here in the bone cold valleys hidden beneath vivid leaves, amongst weeping, moss shrouded stones. They stay by the highway, the snack shops, outfitter stores. Convenience ever close to hand.

                The weight of the backpack is good. Solid. Creaking knees at times when the trail meanders down into the damp hollows, sighing muscles with every ascent, naked rock shoulders rising above wilderness lake lands. A trail well travelled, but less so. Not Disneyland, not yet. Woods stretching away, as dark and deep as a Frost poem, holding fast to memory. Not what they were, not now, but not less than needed, not yet.

                A night fire, a lakeside. Crisp, clean air, Fall in it now, of course. A short walk from the circle of light, to the jagged edge of the water. Ripples, stirrings of a night breeze, fish below bobbing up for water striders. Not the peacefulness found in the still of a heavy night. Tonight is light in feel, autumnal. The dome of the sky is high, far off. Stars now, beyond count, the cliché. Truth in that, in seeing the spread of a galaxy in cool autumn, beyond burning neon angels. The Milky Way is visible, a chalked, misted presence, the heart of our galaxy whirling away in its insignificance.

                To sit here, both by fire and lakeside, under stars, a river of cosmos, licking flames dancing with heat, to know of that insignificance. Closer to the divine? Yes, and no. There is Something, and not Nothing. The greatest awareness of all is in that, too great a thought for this night, or any night to follow.

                Sit, with the ghosts and memories instead. Ghosts, under stars. Tranquility. A lake at night, deep in the dark of the woods. Tomorrow, back to highway 60, and its vomited humanity, peacocks in suede, who are in this place, but not of it. A sigh, a vigil. Stars and ghosts. Algonquin Park.

Coyotes on the Hill

                The fire has gone out of the autumn. The brightest of the leaves now a faded yellow. Not sad, but tired, worn. Leaves tremble, longing for release, for the far off ground that is their destiny. The cycle this represents. Time, told the old way, seasons, begins from endings, coiled and serpentine, eternal in this. The images there, poetic. Profound. Not this cold linear view of the world that modernity has adopted. The straight lines of progress costing us the wisdom of far off yesteryears. Circles within circles, beginnings begetting endings, ending beginnings, the serpent eating its own tail. The twisted path of genius.

                The smell of leaf rot is thick. Not unpleasant, affirming. Brown, curled leaves to crunch under foot, rustling about in a swirl of movement. Khayyam, strength of heart, weak of leg, trots (too strong this word, with his limps and aches) into foliage well into senescence. Gaia’s slumber begun, first notes of winter’s deep, sonorous toll. The knowledge of this not a wound, not a fear for the days of long dark, nor the ache of the cold.

                A lone toad sluggishly moves away from the slag of the rail bed on which Khayyam walks. The tracks (straight lines of progress, gone now; a message in that) nothing but a memory, allow the mottled fellow an escape, a last clutching gasp of warmth. He burrows into leafy cover in the thick of some sumac. Not that Khayyam has a taste for toads, but he doesn’t know that about this dog.

                We walk far. Explore this new path. Forgotten rail bed, wooded glades, long stretches of field, crops taken in, harvest come and gone. The houses are distant, spaced far. A distant dog senses us on the tracks and sets to barking. Khayyam perks at this, but does not deign to reply. He has slowed, hips bothering him in the damp. No sun to warm us, though the day is not cold. Grey though, damp. He limps, so we turn.

                At the road crossing a white Pontiac has stopped, pulled up alongside our path. “There are coyotes in the field,” she says. Blonde, pretty, she is concerned. Turning, I see them. On a hill, looking our way. Several of them. Odd, seeing this in daylight. Odd, seeing them in a pack, not a lone trickster. They are far, on their hill. Khayyam, big, golden eyed, has not noticed them. The hill is distant. Not a concern. She is worried, asks “will you be okay?” A smile, a nod. Not far to go now, even for old hips on damp, flat lit days.

                A wave, a road crossing, the rail bed again. Line of progress away from the hill, through trees set to sleep in the dancing of seasons. A trickster yips once. A look back, all are gone. Silence then, the leaf falling deafeningly, to rot and give of itself.