Canoe-Palooza Part Two

Welcome back to the tales of my latest (and first) canoe trip. If you didn’t read the first installment (below) I ask—nay implore—you to read it. It may frame present and future readings better. I had just gotten to the paddling part last time and I will continue it presently. Or… maybe not so presently. I will get to it eventually but something else presses my consciousness more urgently then witticisms about canoes.

The surrounding is astonishing to me. Perhaps it is because I am of the west coast forest variety of red woods and ferns (with a pinch of moss thrown in for some flavor). The trees here are, well, I don’t actually know what they are—but they are different. The trees are various, the bushes abundant, the pine trees relatively minimal, and the ferns not to be found! Apparently in 2007 there was a forest fire. I say apparently because although burn areas are obvious, the growth that is coming in is remarkable.

Where it is worse, there are great grey skeletons—great grey giants—like monuments to the kings that once ruled the forest. Their carcasses lay scattered on the shores of the lakes, their limbs reaching—stretching—for the water, as if as they were dying they had some hope that the water would save them from incineration—once more ditch effort to find salvation. Those further up the banks—those who could not dip their last burning branches into the cold lake water—those still standing reach their arms to the heavens. Why? they must have asked as the fire spread near where they stood. Why? they must have cried as the first flames flicked their ankles. WHY? they must have shrieked as their trunks and branches were engulfed. And finally a mild why they must have gasped as the choked of their own smoldering remains. And all the while—throughout all the whys—they throw their arms up to beg God to save them. Not to burn. Not this hellish end. They could not fight their doom but they must not have gone down quietly.

Within the time of the forest’s ashy demise and the present, young trees have sprouted like green phoenixes from the ashes they were born. They thrive on their ancestor’s remains, feeding on the black memories of a now forgotten fate. But what are memories that have not—cannot—be remembered. Ashes, soot, dead smoke blown away by the unabating wind. The young ones do not know—although perhaps they have an inkling—of their own, identical fate. Such is the fate of all forests, sadly enough. All giants fall. All kings fall. It is hard for such young saplings to understand death. But the fire always comes. The gates of hell are always opened and its gaping mouth is hungry for new kindling.