AUTUMN DESCENDS LIKE rain in the mountains. The light changes, taking on a quality like the dimming of a candle flame, mazy and opaque. The deer turn a brown that’s almost grey. The bears retreat higher into the ridges. Many of the birds fly south, and there are fewer loon calls from the lake as darkness sets in. The stars shine bright in the night sky like chunks of ice.
A change of season is a marvellous thing. It’s a thrill for each of the senses when these great shifts happen. Fading colours. The smell of wet foliage. The taste of frost in the air. The chill against the soles of your feet as you plod up the mountain trail. The honking of geese far above.
Deb and I have a new woodshed that I built with friends at the tail end of last summer. Even though it’s just a lean-to with a roof, I drew up a plan and made careful measurements. I bought the supplies and did the prep work alone. Then Ron and Ed, the Ukrainian brothers from down the hill, arrived to lend a hand. The shed is sturdy, painted the same colour as the house. Filling it with the wood I’d cut was hard work, but I savoured every minute of it.
Outdoor labour is satisfying. You’re taking care of things. It’s a step back in time to those days when our seasonal needs extended beyond putting winter tires on our cars.
Living in the city doesn’t offer you many chances to engage in that sort of work. I was a hunter-gatherer only on Seafood Day at Costco. My outdoor skills were limited to pooper-scooping on park trails. My sense of self was locked into the hustle and bustle of a cosmopolitan life, and the Indian in me, the tribal, cultural, one-with-the-land spiritualist, was buried under urban grit. The changing of the seasons was marked by new items in the sales bins at Walmart.
Here in the mountains, there’s always something that needs doing to keep life on the rails. That has been a blessing for me. It’s like being reawakened. I’ve tuned into the seasons of my own being and taken steps to ensure a safe passage. I’ve had to learn things I am still clumsy and inefficient at doing. I’m the Neolithic man discovering tools. I’m Oliver Douglas on Green Acres. I’m Canada’s Worst Handyman. I’m Survivor: Kamloops. But adaptation is the hallmark of our species, and bit by bit I’m gaining the skills I need, albeit with some minor injuries, a bashed-up ego and plenty of cussing.
I’m learning how to prepare for change, and that’s the biggest lesson. Caught up in our fast-paced lives, we forget how to stack and store, how to gather and save, how to build, replenish and plan. We lose touch with the rhythm of things. We forget that we live in the stream of Creation and that each of us is an indispensable part of it. We forget that we are all family, all kin. Once you step out where the wind can get at you, it doesn’t take long for the reawakening to happen. That’s the splendid thing. The earth is a healing entity, attuned to us and our needs. Somewhere there’s a stretch of open ground for each of us. Somewhere there’s a patch of green, a place of calm in our busyness. When we find it, we meld with the spirit of the natural world. I know, because it’s happened to me.
The woodshed is filled now, and so is the woodbox that sits by the cabin door. From the moment the chill of winter sets in, we’ll enjoy a good blaze and a warm home. Taking care of things is the very best work of all.