THERE’S A POINT in our morning walks up the mountain when Molly and I are out of reach of everything. The timber road winds up from the Paul Lake Road, disappearing eventually into the heart of the back country. We always stop at the same small creek, and I hunker down on my favourite log while Molly patrols. Once Molly is content and I feel rested, we cross the creek on footstones I installed during our first year here. After we’ve rounded the wide bend a hundred metres up, we climb through bush that’s unbroken except for the evidence of free-range cattle and the scat of coyotes. We’ve never encountered another person.
Once we reach the alpine meadow, a half kilometre farther on, there is suddenly the feeling of the land. There are peaks all around us, and the pronounced jut of mountain terrain. Nothing moves. There is only the wind for company; Molly and I always stop to appreciate the mysterious push of its presence. The land is empty and full at the same time. It can be intimidating up there. You feel the silence in your bones, and you’re alone in a way that is sharp and unforgettable.
My niece’s husband and I once snowmobiled three portages back into the bush to ice-fish north of Pickle Lake, Ontario. It was the dead of winter. The engines sounded harsh in the crisp air, and when we stopped to drink coffee the abrupt drop-off into silence was eerie. Every movement we made was amplified. My parka sleeve rustled loudly as I drank. We were at the back end of an old trapline, in real wilderness, and we had the feeling of being watched from the trees. The day was sunny and cloudless, casting the trees into deep shadows. The lake glistened so brightly that we had to squint to see, even through the tinted masks of our helmets. I felt very small.
By the time we reached the lake where we wanted to fish, it was noon. The wind had died down, and we settled into our camp chairs to wait for the pickerel to tug at our lines. The platter of the lake was ringed with bush, so our line of view ended at the ragged treetops. Above us was only sky. The sheer white stretch of snow around us was unbroken except for the twin tracks of our snowmobiles. Any idea of human accomplishment vanished.
My people say that the land’s curious balance of fullness and emptiness is spiritual. Sitting out by that lake, I truly understood how powerful Creation is. All it would have taken to trap us there was a bad spark plug. No one can walk fifty kilometres out of the deep bush in the middle of winter. So my realization that the land held all the power was not theoretical. I’d become a speck, a dependent child. I was a being in need of grace, and in one sweeping moment I became a believer in all that is and all that will be. Gitchee Manitou— the Great Spirit.
We caught a load of fish, and we cleaned them so we could deliver them to elders and families on our return. Then we motored back. As we retraced our tracks, the engine noise shrill in our ears, it struck me how easy it is to forget the elemental teachings we receive in this life. Our dependency is immediately transferrable, as mine was to the feel of a throttle and the deep roar of a motor. Once I was safe in the seat of an Arctic Cat, the insight I’d gained was gone in an instant. The land whipped by, and with it the notions of emptiness and fullness. I was back to thinking of myself as an independent being, a man, reliant on technology to define me. I had to remind myself that what was real, what was permanent, was what I’d experienced out there beside the lake.
There is no word for wilderness in any Native language. There’s no concept of the wild as something that needs controlling. In the Native world, there’s no word for control, either. My people say that humility is the root of everything. To be in harmony with the world, you need to recognize where the power lies and to respect that. It’s simple to do when you’re miles away from anybody else, but just as simple to forget once you’re back on familiar territory.
On my mountain walks with Molly in the mornings, I’d only have to twist my ankle or pull a leg muscle to discover where the real power lies. The land can kill, swiftly and without mercy. But it is a generous entity. The land gives us life, and feeling the power of it around me reduces us to our proper size. Every morning I’m forced to recognize my fragility and to acknowledge my actual place in the scheme of things. That reminds me to cherish what I have and to be thankful for all of it. Emptiness and fullness at the same time. In the land, and in me.