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.
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