Every fall my partner and I pack up our vehicle, strap my kayak to it's roof, and head out to the wilderness for a ten to fourteen day camping and fishing trip. Each year, as we get older, and roughing it is a little harder for my partner to endure, our annual holiday becomes more and more a concession on her part, a gift she gives to me because she knows just what I get from spending those precious few days out in the wilderness.
There's just something about being out there in the natural world that feeds my soul and 'roughing it' seems to be an intrinsic part of the experience. ... The cold, the wet, getting warm, dry, and clean, feeling the sun and wind on my face, catching the next day's breakfast, collecting wood and building a fire, smelling the smoke from it and watching the flames dance, and then at last snuggling into a chilly sleeping bag at night with nothing but it and a thin layer of stretched out nylon to protect you from the elements ... it's just all so alive and real, and nothing, nothing is taken for granted.
Unlike the rest of the year, I don't need an alarm clock to wake me, and I'm up with the dawn. Someone once told me that that was when the fish were feeding, and although I've never once caught a fish before ten am, I don't ever want to miss out on the chance that I might. So it's a quick trip to the outhouse, and If I have the time or it's too cold to do without, I'll light the Coleman and make a cup of coffee to take with me out on the lake.
Fishing is something I love to do that has nothing to do with anyone else, except for the sharing of the fish I've caught afterward. But when I'm doing it, it's just me, the lake, the fish, the trees, the mountains, the sky, ... and the rhythm. It's just all so simple and beautiful, ... and quiet. If I'm thinking, it's under the surface, or happening within that rhythm that it's not obvious. I'm alone, but I don't feel alone at all, more the opposite, like I've slipped comfortably into that slot where I'm connected to everyone and everything.
I don't know how to explain it except that something bigger than me, ... God if you will, Mother Nature, or simply the earth is cold, and I feel it. This bigger than me something makes the wind, and I respond in turn by digging in deeper with my paddle; the wind dies down, the motion of my kayak flattens, and the force of my strokes match. Catching a fish is like receiving a gift, being rewarded for my ability to match the rhythm that I'm submerged in, that I've become part of.
I'm starving when I come in off the lake, and everything I eat tastes wonderful. Breakfast is a celebration, and if it's the fish I've caught, even more so with the added bonus of feeling like I'm a provider passing on the gifts that I've been given. The sun rises higher in the sky, burns off the fog and warms the air, and I strip off the layers I'm wearing, again, another celebration, another 'this is the life' moment. ... And then at night when the sun sinks below the horizon, and I build a fire, the warmth from it is another gift that the earth has provided, the heat bursting from the fire wood as if it's releasing a collection of a thousand sunlit afternoons.
My partner and I play this game when we are sitting around a campfire. At any given moment we ask the other, what are you thinking about right now. It's amazing how your thoughts travel so freely without you realizing it, as you are sitting there so quietly watching the flames. Sometimes it's the day's little drama's that play out in your head, making sense out of them, sorting them out and filing them away, and at other times you thoughts are drifting like smoke, and there's nothing heavier in your head than wondering just what causes that popping that sends a spark flying into the cold air.
And now we're home, and I am glad to be, but I felt a bit displaced for the first few days. Everything seems so different here. The rhythm is different, more complicated somehow; the reasons for doing things seem fabricated and not so much part of something simple and whole. I can't see myself waiting again for another whole year before I get back out there again. It's where I find peace, where everything comes together for me, and where I feel part of that bigger something.
The trick, I suppose, is to hold onto that feeling for as long as I can. Writing out how the experience felt helps to keep it, like collecting fire wood and piling it away to be burned throughout the cold dark winter. Hopefully this year I've collected enough, and I won't ever have to worry about feeling the cold of loneliness again.