tom brown jr 1980 - the search - text - kilroy

8/7/2019 Tom Brown Jr 1980 - The Search - text - Kilroy

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92 /Tests and Encounterstrucks and automobilescompeted with the muffled whisperingofthe men working busilyabout the boy'sbody. Why do we whisperin the presenceof death?EpilogueI will neuer see a birch that I won't enuisiona sandy-hairedboyclimbing and swingingfor joy. Launching his body . . . willowystrong,from its uppermost trunk,kicking joyously to the ground.There is hope for me in those birches. They are forme a reminder of what pain exfsfs midst the jcy when we runamok-when we forget the birchesand thejoy of beingone withour earth.I will try to change this land and her people. I will teachwhat I haue learned and trust that someday we might all be"sr,uingersof btrche.s.. . ."


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part twoPARKRANGER


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%'F$r'# *'ujii;.h 1'f ir,q

HINDgNo\^/sl.loE RABgtT

7/Pork RangerHaue you euer been in the wilderness?Haue you euer been in aplace fhaf is so fsoloted that it would takeyou doys, euen if youknew the way, to walkout and find anotherhuman being?Haueyou euer been completelyalone in the wilderness,otooyfrom allother people and all the soundsof ciuilization?When you hauebeen able to sitfor hours and listento the natural sounds aboutyou blend with your breathingand heartbeot?

lf you haue, then you know thatthe rhythm ot'nqtureisdifferent lrom that of man.It fs sloruer and uery steadq.lt'you stopyour car by the roadsideand try to listento the sounds, other thanthose of the noisy highway, and take your heartbeat, you willrealize how out of sync, out of rhythm you are, becauseot' thetensionyou experienceon the road. Your heartbeat will be muchtoo fast.But get awayfrom the hustleof the highway and relax in

ri;fii:J;t l .' tt''"''}ll tttur:r


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96 / Park Rangerthe Great Spfrit 'swilderne.ss,ond seeyour part in it, and you willbegin to sense the slow, steady rhythm of eternity that exfstsollaround you. And the chancesare uerygood thatyour heartbeatwill slow to keep pace with the world around you.We liue much too t'ast.Fasterthan we were meant toIiue, and it takes its toll. lf you sif in a forest and think about thesfock market, you'll be out of place and neuer experience therelaxation and greatersenseof peace that is auailableif you listento the cricketand watch the sunt'all through the leauesor smellthe rich natural odor of rotting leaues.I have been where man seldom goes and have experiencedaoneness with my surroundings that brings with it the greatestsense of peace that anyone can imagine outside of church.There was a period in my lifewhen I traveledthe coun-try, living off the land and visiting our National Parks. I spentweeks at a time deep within our naturalwildernessareas,enjoy-ing the beauty and variety of life that it hasbeen setasidefor. All Itook on this journey was a blanket roll and my favorite knife.Because I was hitchhiking,it was a folding buck and not one ofmy handmade sheathknives. I would neverpick up a hitchhikerwho was wearinga sheath,although they are quite popular andmany truckers are wearing them today. I was trekking to enjoyand didn'tfeel as if I wanted to encounterany resistancebecauseof my appearance.I have a rule that I have tried to live by. WhenI am in the woods, I will wear what is the leastalien to that envi-ronment. Hence, I'll often wear buskskins or a loincloth, butmost often just a wool shirt and jeans.The shirt will be a plaid forcamouflagepurposes. A deer can discernsolid colors, but theplaid will breakyou up enough to standundetected,if you remainperfectlystil l, in the middle of a field.

When I traveled acrossthe country, I dressedjust thatway. I didn't try to draw attention to myselfor make a statementthrough my trappings. That's the way of the white man. TheIndian would wear fancy dressonly during a ceremony,when itmeant somthing. He didn't run naked because he thought itwould shock someone or offend someone with whom he dis-agreed. I could have wandered about the counhy in my buck.skins and have everyonethink that I was some sort of an eccen-tric, but that wasn't the purpose of my wanderings.I traveledto


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Park Ranger/ 97observe, not to be observed, and I was as interested in all thepeople I met as I was in the wildernessI explored, but that, asthey say, is another story.There was one wildernessarea in which I spent quite agood deal of time and impressed me enough to write about it.There are two reasonsI remember it so vividly. The first reasonisthat I experienced a great storm there and had a great truthrevealedto me through it. The secondreason is that I discoveredwhy the wilderness,and nature itself, is so difficultfor most peo-ple to understand. I hope you'll be able to discover with methrough this porhayal the truths that so impressedme. ['m callingthis part "Park Ranger.""You're going backpackinginto this wildernessarea with no back-pack, no sleepingbag, no food, and no weapon?""That's right." I smiled at the ranger who had been ques-tioning me for an hour."l don't supposeyou have a hunting license?"He waslooking for some excuse to keep me out of this wildernessarea.He couldn't believewhat he was hearing.I answered politely, "No, because I don't expect tokil l anything.""Excuse me for asking, but what are you going to eat?"

"ln this specificwilderness area, there are over a thou-sand edibleplants,"I began my canned lecture. "Of coursethatnumber is greatly reduced because of the time of the year, butthere'sstill plenty.""You a vegetarian?"He reached for a cigarette."No, but at times I feel that I shouldn't take life. This isone of those times." I added, "l might even fast a day or two.""Are you some kind of religious freak?" His matchburned blue white, and a tiny sliverof smoke curled away from itand disappeared."Not really, though my beliefs are somewhat Indianin nature."He shook his head and took a long hard drag on hiscigarette."l've never met anyone like you. Lots of kids want to

hike back in this area and aren't prepared, but after I tell themwhat they can expect,they are usuallydiscouraged.""Sir, I don't discourageeasily.Besides, I know exactly


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98 / ParkRangerwhat to expect. That's why I'm not taking a weapon and am notgoing to eat any meat.""How's that?" He was curious."lt 's hunting season!"I answeredas if everyone wouldrealizethe truth of what I was going to say."l want to seeanimals.They'll be avoiding any man with a weapon. If I don't have aweapon, the animalswill know that I come in peace and meanthem no harm, and won't hide from me.""You talk as if the animals were human." He avoidedmy eyes."They're not human, but they are our brothers."I rein-forced my point with a finger directedat the park ranger."Listen, kid, if you come across a grizzly who's meanand hungry, don't tty any of that brother stuff on him, or you'llend up in your brother'sstomach."He coughedon some smoke."l don't think so, but if I did, that would be all right. It 'sbetter than rotting in the ground somewhere doing no oneany good."He finished his cigaretteand crushedit under the heelofhis boot. "l know that you are determinedto go into thisarea,butI feel it'smy duty to forbid you enhance. I know these mountainsand the weather herc. It's a time of storms.The sun can be shin-ing one minute, and you'll be in the middle of a blizzardthe next.You could die in these mountains. If that ever happened, I'dnever be able to forgive myself.""You let the huntersgo," I argued."Only with experiencedguidesand with horses,kid."I knew I had lost.He wouldn't let me into the area,but Ioffered one lastplea. "l don't know what I can say to convinceyou that I'm capable of surviving up there in any weather andwith any animals.""Nothing. Just do us both a favor and drop it. You're anice kid, but you're no Indian. You'd die in there."I shrugged."Okay.""That's better." He smiled and reached for anothercigarette,offered one to me" I declined.That night I left a note on his door that explained theway I would be going into the Wilderness Area and the way Iwould be coming out. I told him that I did not know exactlyhow


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Park Ranger/ 9\long I would stay or where I could wander, but would probablycome out soon after the first big snowfall. I also told him that Icould bring him a gift from our brother.I knew that he would try to find me the first day, so Ifound a very thickbriarpatch,climbedinto it, and waited. He wassoon riding up the hail I had followed. I could hear him for min-utesbefore I saw him. He was making so much noisethat a rabbitjumped into the briarsto hide with me. He wouldn't seethe rabbiteither, I thought. His horse stopped on the trail just a few feetfrom where I lay. He looked all about him, acrossthe fields andaheadinto the mountains.He never looked down into the briars.Mostpeople don't. They look for what they want to see,but fail toseemost of what is all around them.I had been in hiding from rangersbefore. I had lived forweeks right under their noses, and they never knew that I wasthere. Why? Becausethey see only what they want to see. Thetragedy is they are well-educated. They can name the scientificLatin names of the plant life, they know many of the habitsof theanimals.They even love the wilderness.They reverenature andfight to preserveit, but most of them don't understand its soul.They don't relateto nature personally, but scientifically.Thisrangercouldn'tseeany signof me. I hadn't walked,like most campers,leavinga stream of messagesof my presence.I didn't break branchesor carry a walking stick and hack at theweeds. I didn't drop cigaretteson the trail or gum wrappers. Ididn't kick at big rocksor shuffle through piles of leaves,disturb-ing the grubs. He would have expected to overtake me on thehail becausemost hikerswould get tired and sit for a rest. But Ididn't do any of thesethings,and I think he felt that my note hadbeen a bluff. He turned his horse and rode back toward theentranceof the park. I wondered if he would be waiting for me atthe place I told him I would be coming out?


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cov{ .ii'lti.i,ii:'..i{:#*,;iii:::i! -..----r,r

ELK

8/CathedrqlI had been wanderingfor four doys through the WtldernessAreain Montana. The weather was turning colder. The foliage hadturned, and much of rt had fallen. When I walked, I left my printson nature's Oriental rug. I had been following a ridge line on themain trail and stopped where a smaller trail led down into a tinyualley.The first setof prints I saw heading down the trail made me realizethat I would be descendinginto the valley before long. A bobcathad walked down the trail the night before. Lynx rut'us,l thought.I'm going to follow you to your den if I have to track you twenty-five miles. I was excitedto have found the tracksof this rare cat.At first, I didn't believe my eyes. I thought someone's cat hadgone wild, but I'd never seen a cat print this big. They were two


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702/ Park Rangerinches long, and registeredthirteeninchesapart, and weremadeby an animal that weighed at leasttwenty-fivepounds.

It was not an easy track. The ground was covered withleavesand was very rocky. However, I was ableto deducewherethe cat would go and so would go to thatspot,search,and usual-ly find at leasta partial print to go by.By the time I had arrived on the floor of the valley, it waslate afternoon. The cat had stopped at the streamthat ran downthe centerof thisgorgefor a drink. Now which way would a bob-cat go? I looked across the stream, but saw no sign on theopposite bank where the cat might have climbed or jumped. Itprobably stayedon the rocks along the stream,hoping to comeon sorne small animal fishing or taking a drink. But which waywould this cat have wandered?When you can't see, f.eel."The words of StalkingWolfcame to me as I knelt besidethe stream.I cupped some of thecold water in my hand and drank. "lf lwere a cat, where would Igo?" I sniffedthe air for some clues.The air was damp and full ofthe smell of pine and rotting leaves.I l istenedhard againstthesounds of the forestand stream. The grosbeakand siskinspoketome. The red squirrelscolded. A trout jumped. Somewhere farupstream a sound came through. It was a sound of water falling.At that moment I felt l ike heading upstream. I did. Iwalked into the most dazzlingexperienceI could ever imagine.What I saw made me forget the bobcat. I had wandereidinto anatural cathedral.I fell to my kneesand cried. They were tearsof joy andawe, respectand gratitude.The sunlightangled down throughthe tall pines and diffused into a pattern of shadow and light onthe rocks and water pools that would shame any man-mademosaic. The birdsongsof redpoll, goldfinch, siskin, junco, gros-beak, and tanagerfilled the air with a cacophony of music. Myspirit soared.A rainbowformed in the mist thrown up by the waterfall.The giant pinescreateda canopy a hundred feet from the valleyfloor and supportedthe blue-greensky.There is a creation story told by the Kato Indians thatbegins, "He stood ,p pines along his way. He placed yellowpines. Far away he placedthem." Thesewords came to my mind


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Cathedral/ 103as I knelt on hard rock and watched the sun setsoftly through thetall pines, yellow like candlelight. No cathedral constructed byman'shands could everbe this perfect.I worshipped, fasted, andmeditated there for three days. I will never forget the experience.In the morning, early, before the first light, elk wouldcome to drink from the pools. I would watch them come singlefile to the water'sedgeand drink while one kept watch. They hadalready begun to turn grayish-brown,and their maneswere grow-ing longer for the winter. One of the calvesstill had light spots. Itmust have been born late. They were such a proud animal that Icouldn't imagine how man could have exterminatedthem in theeasternstates.I would go next to the pool. I would lie down on a flatrock near the fallsand douse my head full in the water. I woulddrink my fill and then roll onto my back to watch the sun rise inthe cathedral.The first light was ushered in by a pine grosbeak'ssweet warble. As the gray turned slowlygolden, a thousand bird-songs would herald the sun. Each dawn was more magnificentthan the previous had been. I was each time overwhelmed by itsbeauty. I would lie there, arms outshetched,and welcome thenew day. The secondday I filled my hands with seedsand fed thechoir of birds who were supplying the cathedral'smusic. Manybirds came that day, but when I spreadseedsabout the rock thenext day, hundreds came. I was surrounded by them. A redcrossbillnibbledpine seedsfrom my hand and thanked me withitsToo-teesong. Everybird whose song t had heard came to par-take of the grain offerings.Later in the morning the red squirrel would sally forth,and his friend the leastchipmunk would join him. Sometimesamuskrat would poke its head above the water'ssurfaceto liritentothe squirrels' chatter. I would lie concealed by the flat rock andwatch them eat and drink of the cool water.The red fox came silently to the sheam from above thefalls. But he was not looking for game. He did not sniff at theground or follow the scentof the squirrelor the snowshoe or thechipmunk. He stoppedfor a brief instanton the flat rock besideme and looked up at the sunlight. Golden rays made his red coatshinewith an etherealbrilliance.He turned and went out the wayhe had entered.lt was as if he had comeherc to give thanks.


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704/ Psrk RangerThe sunsetbroughta weasel,a skunk,and a red-backedmouse. I lay breathlessevery evening to see if the weaselwouldcross the stream and take the mouse. He didn't. There was

somethingabout this place that made kil l ing in it impossible.[twas a good-medicine place, but more than that, it was holyground, and every living thing that entered this place senseditsdifference and respectedit.I had discovereda naturalcathedral,where peacewas away of life. I felt good there. Too good. I could spend the rest ofmy life there, enveloped in awesomepeacefulness.There, theconcept that the earth and all it produced and nurtured was holy,was real. I felt it. I was it. I heard it. It washue. What could drawme away from this place?Hunger.I fasted three days. Although I was completely relaxedand content, I was beginning to feel a little weak. What was I todo? I had no desire to kill any of the other worshippersin thissacred place, but I knew that I had to eat. I could forage, butagain I had no desire to disturb the perfect harmony that sur-rounded me. I decided to leave in the morning.The screechand greathorned, both, roostedhigh in thepines and called the forest to prayer at night. These territorialbirds sharedthis place. I had sharedit also and must move on.Perhapsthat is the way it was meantto be. Perhapsno man couldspend his entire life in such a place. The spirit, afterall, isat homein the body, and the body needssustenance. I answeredthe owls'call and thanked the Great Spirit for my good fortune. Threedaysof perfect peace. It was more than some experiencein a lifetime.I rose before the grosbeak called, before the elkdescendedto the sheam. I wantedto takemy leavein silenceandalone. I moved toward the streamand was startledby a shadowyform standing on the rock where I had spent the last three days.Its eyesmet mine and seemedto recognizeme. Yes,that wasthefeeling I receivedfrom its gaze-recognition. Then it turned andbounded off toward the falls. "Lynx rut'us,"I whispered,"you ledme here."I followed the bobcat up and out of the tiny valley intothe gray morning just as the grosbeak sang. The golden lightcame earlierthis morning as I climbedthrough fir, pine, spruce,and larch. It would be a good duy.


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DO6\^/0()D

g/The Soul of a TreeMy fire uos smoll, Iikethe lndians used. StolkingWoA soid, "Thewhite men buildsa bigfire and sifs/or away. The lndian buildsasmallfire and sifs close." I had my blanket wrapped about myshouldersand almostaround the fire. As if died down, I wouldencompassit wffh the blanket and let the heat of the cools warmme as I slept squatting.I had done this before, but only when itwasuerycold. The t'irsttime I tried it, I slumped to one sidein mysleep, and my blanketsmoldered. Stolking WoA stamped on itbefore it becamea flame. This time he dtdn't laugh. "Don't try ituntil you can sleep the whole night in squat without falling."Then and there I decided not ta use this method to keep warmunlessit wss an emergencyand unlessthere roossomeone awakeon watch.I was alone, and therewas no emergency.I just wanted to warm


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706/ Park Rangermyself before I crawled into my leaf hut for the night. This hadbeen a peaceful time for me, and I was reminiscing about mychildhood and the many eveningsI spent with Rick and StalkingWolf around the campfire at our good-medicine cabin. Thishelped me remember.It had been a cool day but sunny. I had come acrossthetracks of about fifteen pack horses and their riders. They wereheading north along a ridge I had explored two days earlier.Theywere hunters searching for elk. They would find none up thevalley they were headed toward. The elk had pastured there aweek before, but had moved west over the mountain to a tenderaspengrove. I doubt if these hunters would climb the mountain tolook for them. Most of these pack-animal hunters just scan theopposite ridges, looking for browsing elk, and then hy to stalkclose enough through some very rugged terrain to get a shot.Theirs is no easytask, becausethe elk have excellentsenses,andmost of these hunters make a devil of a racket climbing downthrough thick underbrushand up over rocks in order to geta clearshot. I can't say I'm unhappy about that, and as I studiedthehoofprints, I wondered if they had enough provisions to keepthem going until they found some elk. I hoped not, and I think Iwas right, becauseI didn't hear any shotsthat day, and that nightthe storm struck.In the middle of my dream I became aware of theabsenceof sound. It is unusual to have no sound in the woods.The screechowl that worked this part of the mountain was silent.The mice weren't scurrying with the chipmunks, and the windwasn'tsoughingthrough the dried leaves.[t was quietand warm.There was little moon, and the weather had been generallycloudy, and so the blacknessof the night wasn't unusual,but thestillnessand the warmth were. "lt's a storm." I knew it instinctivelybefore I said it aloud to myself.There was a giant oak besidemy leaf hut. The reasonIhad constructedthe hut at its base was becausethe lndians hadalways consideredthe oak a sacredtree and often had tribal cere-monies beneath it. To me the oak with its deep root system,reaching far into Mother Earth, and its hardness was goodmedicine. It gave me a senseof securityto be near it and a senseof timelessness.This night it seemed to beckon me into its out-spread branches.


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The Soul of aTree/107I climbed high into its branches and secured my rightarm to the trunk with my belt. I was going to ride the oak throughthe storm and hopefully discover its soul in the process. What

happened to me that night was a miracle of no lessproportionsthan Constantine'svision of the crossin the sky.The stormthat hit the mountains that night had winds ofhurricane force, and the rain at times was driven parallel to themountain. In the blue light of almost constantburstsof lightning,Isawheespulled up by the roots and blown acrossthe ravine. Onesmall tree broken in half by the wind was driven into a pine likesome spearthrown by a giant. The lightningstruckall around me,and the wind howled like a pack of wolves and went on throughthe night till just before dawn.All during the storm I clung to the hee with all mystrengthand felt it twistand sway in my grip. It spoke as it foughtagainstthe swirling winds and held on tight to its mother with itsmilesof roots. "l have met you before, mighty wind. When I wasa sapling, gou raced over this mountain and tore at my father'strunk and almost toppled him. His mighty weight shielded me.Again when I was young, you came without warning when mybrancheswere heavywith leavesand greenfruit and the squirrelswere playing at my teet; and then you took a limb from me andwith it my youth. You returnedmany timesand broke my branchesand gave me a gnarled look, but you have never taken me frommy mother or stopped my groping for the sky by taking my upperbody. I havebeen bent and twistedbut neverbroken or uprooted,and I won't give in this time either."The tree creakedand groanedand lost a limb, but it never gave

Grasping the trunk with my face pressed into the graybark, I could see the water as it ran in rushing rivers down thehee's side, following the contours of the bark. The texturechanged as did the color when the bee was wet. The gray be-camean almostdeterminedblack, and it softenedto the touch andbecame more pliable. It didn't bruise as easilywhen hit by flyingdebris. Instead it would dent.Its leaves,brown and ready to fall, took flight that night,and filled the air around me like a swarm of gnats. The windseemed to swirl around the tree as if it had a personal vendettaagainst this oak, causing the leaves to be whipped about like asmall tornado. They lashed at my body and head and cut at my


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708/ Park Rangerarms and ankles.In the morning, when the winds had died downand there was enough light to see, the oak stood naked saveforone trembling leaf in jeans and plaid wool clinging to its uppertrunk. When I looked down, what I saw brought goosefleshalive up and down my back. The large branch that had beenbroken from the oak had fallen butt end, straightthrough the leafhut I had slept in the past two nights.If I had stayedthere, I wouldsurely have been killed.The Indians tell a story about a greatbattlebetweentheGood Spirit and the Evil Spirit. The Good Spirit wins, but the EvilSpirit, who must live in a cave and never see the sun, continuesto send demons to the surface of the earth to harm man anddisrupt nature. This wind seemedto be attackingthis very oak towhich I clung, and there was a moment, when the rain was driv-ing hard into my face and the lightning was striking close, that Ifelt as if it were attackingme. But the oak twistedand spoketo meat that moment, and I smiled in the knowledge that this oak thatwas sacredto the Indian was also my friend.That night in the hee made me understandthe oak morethan any book. I didn't know her exactage, but I knew she wasold. I learnedthe soundsshe makeswhen a wind of over a hun-dred knots whips at her branches.I know what her wood soundslike when it is broken green from her ancient body. I know thecolor she turns as she soaksthe rain into her thick skin, and theodor she emits from her wet bark. I know her fully clothed,changing, and naked, and I have seen her bleed. That night inthe tree I realizedhow our ancestorscould worship her in theiranthropomorphic wdy, becausethat night I discoveredthat shehad a soul.The soul of a tree is not like the soul of a human being. Itis its personality.The willow has a soulthat criesfor man. The ashhas a soul that laughs.The birch hasa prlre soul, the pine isgen-tle, the dogwood innocent, the aspenfickle, the sweetgum sultry,the beech enchanting, the redwood majestic.The oak has a sacred soul. [t is strong and protective.The oak is a friend to man. The gallantway it standsagainsttheelements is an inspiration, and I honestly feel that she spoke tome that night and beckoned me to come into her branchesfor


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The Soul of a Tiee/709protectionagainstthe forces.I believeshe saved my life. Call it in-stinct if you care to, or call it intuition, or a sixth sense thatregisteredin my subconsciousthe fact that there was a weak limbfifty feet over my hut, or call it luck. I call it a miracle.The night of the storm, I learned all about a tree. Thefollowing day I learned about myself.I asked myself a lot of questionsthat were not easy toanswer.why had I climbedthe tree?why wasn't I kil led?whatam I supposedto do now-now that I have realizedI had beenspared?Would this experiencechange my life? What was thereleft for me to do or experiencefor which I had been saved?To methere is no coincidencein this l ife.Everythinghasa purpose,andtherefore everyaction or lack of it has a purpose. Most peoplewould squasha tiny insectwithout realizingthat it is a vital link inthe food chain that allowsthem to live. We are learningmore andmore the interdependencyof all life. We see how an insecticideinthe fields of lowa affectthe fish in the Gulf of Mexico. We are allrelated,and nothing is completewithout the other. We are allessentiallyone huge organismlike the cellsof a largebody, eachdoing our job to keep the whole aliveand well.I climbed down out of the tree and pulled what re-mained of the leaf hut apart in order to get my blanket: The limbof the oak had pierced it through. Again I thanked the GreatSpirit for my safety,for my escape.Again I was reassuredthat mylife-styleof following instinct,my sixth sense, was valid.The trail north was the one I followed that day. I wascuriousasto what mighthave happenedto the packhain. I didn'ttry to follow their trail. It would havebeen difficult at bestafter thestorm of the previousnight, but not impossible.InsteadI figuredthat they would have traveledstraightup the valley to a passthatran betweenthe giant mountainsto the eastand out of the park.After that storm, I was sure that they would be anxious to get outof thesemountains.

It was a clearcool day with abreezeout of the west thatcame down from the mountain carrying my scent before it intothe valley. The hail was littered with leaves and branches,butevery so often I spotteda print of an animal that had beencaughtaway from itsburrow by the stormand was hurrying home beforeit was discovered-like some husbandwho lost hack of the time


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170/ Park Rangerat a poker game and is trying to sneak in beforehis wife discoverswhat time it is.The prints of a stripedskunk were headednorth with mealong this trail. He would stop momentarily to look around andsniff the air, but he was quite intent on getting to his hole. Iguessedit would be down the mountain toward the stream-Oncehe stopped to dig by the trailfor some insects.I supposehe didn'thave much time last night to hunt. I was right. When he left thetrail, he headed on an elk run down into the valleyand, I hope,safety. A skunk abroad during the day is easy prey for fox,cougar, or even a hungrYbear.Suddenly there was a sound similar to an explosivealarm clock coming from the pines above me. [t was a red squir-rel. Somethingmustbe coming. I looked up the elk run and sawagroup of cows being led by an antleredbull down the mountain tograzein some of the lowland pasture. If only the hunting partyhad been here, they would have had a chanceat a kill. I wonderhow anyone could kill such a magnificentanimal. This male wasat least700 pounds and proud with his dark maned neck stretch-ing to catch the scentand lead his herd to a safefeedingground'He looked back up the mountain for a moment, and at thatinstant I moved back. Firstout of his line of vision, and then to aspot where I might conceal myself and watch them passclosely'I knew that as toon as they got downwind, my scentwould alertthem and send them in a mad dash into the valley'The spot I chosewas right on the run and concealedbysome boulders and small pine hees. I flattened out behind therocks and listened as their hooves scraped the rocks in theirdescent.They passedme on the run, not ten inchesfrom whereI lay. They are huge animals, especiallyif you're looking up atthem, so I remainedvery stil land carefulnot to spookthem' Onekick from their sharp hoofs could disablea cougarand, I'm sure,crush my skull. Three femalespassed me with their young bull'About ten yards down the run, one of them caught my scent,gave the alarm, and the race was on.I was tempted to jump up and run after them down themountain, but knew that their great speedwould make me lookcompletely ridiculous. lnstead, I looked up to the pine where thered squirrel was chewing on a cone and nodded in gratitude'


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772/ ParkRangerThey missedthe essentialbeauty of thisgreatwildernessarea.I'msure they noticed the mountains and valleys, and couldexperience the sunsetsthe same as anyone, but they missedthe majority of the abundant animal life that surrounded themconstantly.I came to this wildernessto experienceall that it had tooffer. I wanted to observeits wildlife and taste its wild grasses.Iwanted to sleepunder her starsand feel her rain and snow on myface. I wanted to trackher game and watch her birdsof prey huntthe mountainsides.I came to this wildernessto learn, not to kil l.All I would take from her was the knowledge of her heartbeatnotthe rack of a mature bull elk.I know that in years to come, I will have no trophieshanging on my den wall. No visual remembranceof my trip tothis wilderness.What I will have, instead,is the knowledge ofwhat makes this wildernessdifferent from all the others. That iswhat I'll be able to relate to my children. I won't be able to tellthem how I sightedthrough the scopeof my 357 magnum Win-chester and felled a mighty elk with one shot at four hundredyards. I can only tell them that a herd passedten inchesfrom mynose, and they smelledwet and sour. I can only tell of the gruntsthey made to eachother as they made their way down the moun-tain, like the grunts of acknowledgement I make when my sonpoints out something interestingto me.Life in thiswildernessareawasabundantbeyond belief.I have never seensuch a variety of life and so much of it. Therewete raccoons,woodchuck,red bats,and white-tailedrabbit.Mytime there was meaningful. Up to this time t had discoveredanatural cathedraland experiencedthe soulof an oak. I had comeso close to an elk that I could have touched it and had avoideddeath by choosinga night of danger in a tree.lt was, you mightsay, satisfying.The group of hunterstraveledon. I gaveup my pursuit.The area was too interesting to let it pass without a morethorough investigation. I stayed in this area by the stream forthree days until the first snowfall, before I decided it was time tobe headingon.


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''u;*:- r;.i?$" tif:.$,., ,tip,HIND GR.IZZLY BSAR

10/My Brother the GrizzlyI woke one morning, crawledout of my leaf hut into six inchesofsnow. It had t'allen softly the night bet'oreand blanketed the areawhiteand sparklingin the morningsun. Trocksof chipmunk, rab-bit, squirrel,and raccoon crfsscrossed the clearingin front ol ^yhut. Seeing all those tracksand not an animal in sightmade merealizejusthow late I was gettingup. A gray jay in a nearby pinescolded me for sleepingso late.More snow than I had expected fell that night. There was wellover a foot of new snow accumulated, and it was still falling.However, its quiet beauty more than made up for the difficultyofhavel its depth might impose. Snow falls lightly for me, even in ablizzard.lt comforts my spirit as it covers me and my Mother Earthwith its feathery comforter. Snow does not chill me. It does not


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774/ Park Rangermake me cold. Rather it is an insulation, like so many downfeathers.Snow fallsand flows through me, fillingme with a senseof pureness.All things are equal under the snow. All are one-one color, one brilliancein the sun. All covered, protectedas ifthe Great Spirit tosseda giant quilt over His creationto protect itfrom the icy northern winds.snow is an excellentinsulation.Ask any Eskimo.[f thesnow kept coming, I would make a shelterfrom it. Though takenby the snow'shypnotic danceon the light air that wasgettingevershonger, I knew that I must be rnoving on. To insurean easierpassage,I cut some saplingsand began to conshuct a pair ofcrude but effectivesnowshoes.I cut the saplingswhich were about an inch round intofour two-and-a-half-footlengths.These would be the sidebarsforthe snowshoes.I alwayscarriedlengthsof leatherabout my waistfor just such emergencies.I cut some and tied the ends of thesaplings, after a little carving, to form the outline of my snow-shoes. I cut some shorter pieces to use as crossbarsand lashedthem securelyto the side pieces. I was careful to use the longerand sturdierpieceswhere the greatestweight of the foot would beplaced. It looked much like a conventional snowshoewhen I wasiinishnd. The pair I left in New Jersey had leatherstretchedandsewn over it to give it yet more strength, but I didn't have anyleather. Instead, I used pine boughs and wove them tightlybetweenthe crossbars.They would help support my weight in thedeep snow, evenif they did slow me down. I was happy with mycraft and allowed myself a compliment as I used the last of myleather ships to lash the snowshoesto my feet and legs. By thetime I finished,the snow had almoststoppedfall ing.I decided to cut over the mountain insteadof followingthe main hail. It was the way the bear had gone, avoidingwell-worn paths in order to avoid the hunters. t would do well tofollow the bear, I thought. Off I climbed, though I couldn't haveclimbed any higher than I felt. The pastcouple of weekshad beenenriching. I had experienceda spiritual reawakening.I had beenreaffirmed dozensof times. I had grown. The time spent in thesemountainshad been good. I was high.

At the edge of the tree line, before a meadow thatshetched averthe summit of the mountain, I spieda fallen tree. It


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My Brother the Grizzly/ 775had been blown over, perhapsa year before in a storm long for-gotten except for this giant fir tree, which points an accusingfinger in the direction the storm had taken and gone. lts rootsystemwas immense.It lookedlike the ruinsof someancientcas-tle leaning there brown and white against the gray sky. Some-where a jay called.I wondered what kind of a cave that forgottenstorm hadcreatedunder its roots when it toppled that giant fir. If it was aslargeas I figured, it would be an excellent hibernationspot for asleepybear. A grizzly,perhaps. I wondered if I should stop andsay hello to my brother. My mind wandered longer than my legs.I headed straightfor the tree.When I was twenty yards from it, I quietly removed mysnowshoesand began a very cautiouscrawl toward the openingleft by the torn-up roots of the fir. If there was a grizzlyin there,and if I ever woke him, I would be my brother'sfinal meal beforehis winter nap.Bearssleepvery soundly in hibernation.Small animalshavebeenknown to curl up to them for warmth. The femalesdoawaken enough to bear their cubs during this time, and somebearshave been known to wander about when they should besleeping,but on the whole, they sleep long and hard. I wascountingon this,but wasbeingcautiousjust in caseI should hup-pen on a light sleeper.All I thought of was the bear-slappingstoryStalkingWolf had told me, which ended in the hagic death of hisboyhood friend.A deep, heavy breathingcoming from under the rootsalertedme. I was so happy I could shout. What kind of a bearwould it be? I belliedover the hunk of the tree and hung my bodyover the opening like some fat snake looking for an afternoonmeal. There by the opening was the rump of a grizzly.I remem-bered my promise to the park ranger to bring him a presentfrommy brother.I reached for my knife and wrapped my legs around agiantroot and hung suspendedover the openingso that I couldtouch the grizzly.With my knife I cut a swatch of hair from hisrump. "Hope you don't catchcold, my brother," I whispered.The next thing I was doing was tumbling down the op-positeside of the mountain. I took greatstrideson my snowshoes


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776/ ParkRangerand leaped high into the air, flipped over, and landed flat on myback. I did this over and over and laughed till my lungs burned'I was happy.That evening I fashioneda necklaceof the grizjly hair- Itwas shapedaround an acorn to syrnbolizethe night I spent in theoak. A necklace from my brother the gtizzlyand the oak for mybrother the park ranger. The wind increased and blew driftsagainstthe trees. I lay warm in my snow hut and dreamed.It snowed again that night. The branches of the fir and pinegroaned under the weight of the snow. The sun wasbright, how-"u"r. and the trees would soon be relieved of their winter bur-dens. In the snow along the way I spottedthe tracksof a weasel'He wasa long-tailedweaseland must havebeen activejustbeforedawn. What a messhe'd made of the snow where he was hunt-ing. His trail showed swift changes of direction, odd loopings,baiktracking. He was a curious little creature.Where his printswere clear, they were twin with four toes and a pad that formed atriangle. These pairs were anywhere from ten to eighteeninchesupuri. This animal used alternately long and short leaps, andoften its hind feet would registeron its foreprints.I followed this little critter'sprints till the sun was veryhigh. Every so often his tail would register in the snow. How I*i.n"a I had been here the night before to watch this efficienthunter white against the snow, leap about like a coiled spring insearchof food. He couldn't have been ten inches long or morethan an inch in diameter. StalkingWolf said they look like a pieceof rope. I followed his erratic path into a grove of fir and dis-covered where he had dived into the snow' tunneled for sometwenty feet, and reemerged to go on about his hunting. He waslooking for a rabbit hole he remembered being around here,o-"pluce, because he did this same thing three times in thesamearea. I don't believehe found the hole, however,becausethere were no rabbit remains in the vicinity. Some people willhave you believe that weaselssometimeskill for the sheerenioy-ment of it, but I have never found that to be true.The weasel loped off deeper into the woods, but I didn'tfollow. By the signsof his trail I knew that they had been made at


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My Brother the Grizzly/ 777about the time of first light, and he would be headingfor hisden. Ididn't want to disturbhis sleep. He had had a difficult night andhad beenunsuccessfulin hishunt. I turned and headeddown themountain toward the park ranger'scabin. A rough-leggedhawksoared overhead with its wing tips flared. I shaded my eyesagainstthe lateafternoonsun and watched it spiralupward on aninvisiblethermal escalatorof rushingair.Buteo logopushuntsat dawn and at dusk, I thought. I'dbetter hurry if I want to reach the cabinbefore sunset.I wanted tostayand get a glimpseof the hawk'sfeatheredlegsas it lowereditstalons to swoop on a mouse or a lemming, but decidedagainstit.My days in this wildernesswere almost numbered. It was time togo. I continued -y descent.A shril l squeal that I knew imme-diately to be the death cry of a deer mouse turned my attentionback toward the hawk. The mouse was silent in death, but theheavy flapping of the hawk's wings directed my eyes. I sawthe feathers on his legs and below them the limp body of hiseveningmeal.The sun was at my back, and I cast a long shadow as Icame over the last rise that led acrossa broad meadow to theranger'scabin. I was excited as most people are when they arenearingthe end of a journey. The birdswere flying in greatflocksoverhead to their evening roosts. I felt elated, like a soldiercom-ing home from the wars, marching to the music made by a thou-sand bird voices.I stepped high and lengthened my stride.Snowwas flying everywhere.with my anticsand giant shadow, I musthave looked like Big Foot loping down the hill.The ranger was out with his Irish setter and saw me. Iwaved and did a flip in the snow and continued down the hill as ifI were a livingsnowball.I tumbled over and over. I could hear thedog barkingand the ranger laughing. The bark was friendly.As I approachedthe ranger, he said, "l didn't expect tosee you coming out of the woods. I thought you had gone onyour way weeksago.""Didn't you believewhat I wrote to you?""At first I did, but when I rode up the hail and couldn'tfind you, I figured you had left the note as a practicaljoke.""l saw you when you came after me. I hid beside thetrail, just before the large meadow that runs down to the stream


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778/ ParkRangerand halfway up the mountain. You looked for me in that meadowand turned back.""How do you know that?""[ told you. I watched you.""lf you had been there, I would have seenyou.""l was there. Had you turned your horseto the left, youwould have hampled me. I was under a very smallbush.""l would have seenyou!" He was like most people. Hecouldn't believethat he had missedsomethingthat should havebeen obviousto him."Did you know that a great horned owl hunted herelast night?""There'sa greathorned in the forestacrossthe road, so Iguessthat it's possible.But how would I know if it had huntedhere? I sleep at night.""Come here." I led him about five steps toward themeadow I had come acrossand pointed to a depressionin thesnow. He looked down at it and said. "So?"I knelt and outlined the tail and wing marks of the owland then pointed to the talon marks at the center of the picture."The owl swooped down on a mouse here last night, after thesnow had stoppedfall ing.He missedthe mouse.Seethe mouse'sfrantic steps?He ran under that bush. The owl'sbody just brushedthe snow here as his wings beat againstthe wind to break its fall.Lucky litt le mouse."The ranger was convinced. "l walked right by that tenminutes ago and didn't notice it.""l know. Herc are the tracks you made then. See howthe wind has worn at the edgesever so lightly?Look at this. Themouse has been back since you passedhere and is in that tree."The lrish setter was at the base of the tree sniffingwildly.doubtedabout."

"You really know your way around, don't you? Iyou at first, but you seem to know what you're talkingI reached inside my shift and pulled out the necklaceIhad made and handed it to him."What's this?""lt's the gift I promised you from my brother."


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My Brother the Grizzly/ 779"This is grizzly hair?" He felt it and smelled it. "lt is!Where did you get this, in a tree where he had rubbed?""No, I cut it from his rump as he was sleeping."He was about to say something, but changed his mindand just smiled. He was through doubting what I said. Heacceptedit, but stood there shakinghis head anyway. "There'sanacorn in the middle of this.""lt's a symbol of good life and good health. My brotherthe oak wanted you to have it.""Now the oak is your brother. You're related to every-thing, aren't you?"We all are. Well, I'm going to be on my way." I turnedand headed for the road that led to the main highway. "l'll be see-ing you. Take good care of the park for us. You've got a bigresponsibility.""Where are you going to stay tonight? It's cold!""ls it? I hadn't noticed.""You noticed," he yelled after me. "You notice every-thing. You just don't care. Take care." He hesitateda momentand added, "Brother."I turned and waved. My brother.

WOODC.HUCK,AL,SOKNO\^/N AS C'ROUNDHOo


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psrt threeTHESEARCH


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124/ The Searchlized,foodfor some starvingsoul, that was a conhibution. I felt thatif I could learn the way of the deer through observation,that wasas valid as reading a book on the subject.No, it was more valid!

Somehow, I had to test my instinctualfeelings.Some-how I had to put myself in a position to learn more. I wascollegeage. Why not attend the universityof the pinesand learnfrom theCreator through His creation?I decided to hy living an entire year off the land. I wasgoing to go into the Pine Barrens,deep, where no roadsran andno man walked or hunted, and I was going to exist there andlearn for four seasons.Stalking Wolf called it the Twelve Moonhunt; I called it a year in the wilderness.There are two ways to look at the world-through theeyes of man and through the eyes of the Great Spirit. I havechosen the latter and have made my peace with myselfand withmy Mother, the Earth. Here is how it happened.

Summer: Gentle WanderingsI walked toward the trees across an isolatedmeadow. The sunwas at my back, warming me and helping me gently on my way.My shirt caught on a thorn. I took it off and placedit at the foot ofthe bush. I spoke to the bush."Take my shirt, blackberrybush. You give me pleasurewhen I take your fruit. You tugged at my shirtas I passed.I give itto you as a gift. [t will keep your roots moist when the summersun is hot. You will have the sweetestfruit in the Barrens."The sun was warm on my naked back. I shetched andfelt the freedom of movement without seams. This is right, Ithought, and I must do it. I turned my face to the sun as a mem-ory warmed meGrandfather spoke: "What are you.searching for, Tom?"I answered hoarsely, the word fighting its way up fromdeep within my soul, "Peace.""Where will you look for it?"

"l don't know, Grandfather. In school? In religion? Idon't know.


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One Yearof Suruiual/ 725"You will look for it in the earth, Tom." Stalking Wolfwas giving me a direction. It was somethinghe seldom did. Hetaught rhetorically. I could hardly believemy ears. I had always

had a desire to lose myself in the Barrens,but had discounted itas a childish wish to escaperesponsibility."Will I find it there?" I was hungry for the answer Iwanted to hear. My question was a plea."Not in it, Tom, but through it." He said no more, nordid I ask again. He had saidit all. The understandingwas mine todiscover,and I was excited and anxious to begin, but I knew thatit would be some time before I had the courage. It would be onlyafter I had exhaustedthe ways of the white man that I would turnto follow the words of Stalking WolfI was naked. The remainder of my clotheslay folded by the rootsof a gnarled oak. I watched a tiny white spiderwork a miracle onthe undersideof a deep greenleaf. A hawk screamed.

The idea of testingmyself completelyhad been with mefor some time. Stalking Wolf had told me how young Indianbraveswould often leave the tribe and survive alone for twelvemoons. Through this experience,they would find themselves.The Indians believed that the Great Spirit would bring a specialteachingto the isolatedbrave. Many Indian legendstold of greatdiscoveriesmade by these braves that benefitedthe entire tribe.I wanted to experiencea year in the wilderness.I wantedto survive without the aid of my civilization.I was apprehensive.Would the lonelinessdrive me mad? I wascurious. Would I forgetthe art of speech?I was excited.The symbolsof civilizationwere behind me as I stood onthe edge of the forest.All that remained was a knife strapped tomy waist. I prayed."Naked I come to you."At my feet werc the tracks of a white-taileddeer. Theyled into the forest toward a cool spring. I followed.I wandered gently through the Barrensfor three moons'I had no destination,no place I had to be at a certaintime. Somemight say that I wandered aimlessly,but they do not understandthe art of wandering. It is walking in the forest,and not through it.

It is observationthrough participation.Some might saythat I was lostbecauseI had nowhere to


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126/The Searchgo, but they do not understandthat, when someonebelongseverywhere, he is nevet lost. My beloved Pine Barrens washome. I belonged. I was as much a part of it as the deer. I wasat peace.The days and weeks passedswiftly by. During the daysI watched as doe gave birth to fawn and the meadowlarkswovetheir ground nests and hatched their chicks. The nights werefilled with fireflies and bats catching mosquitoes over the Bar-rens' swamps.Time lost its meaning. I slept when I was tired and atewhen I was hungry. I was time rich. I had no appointments tokeep.l had no peersto impress.Yet I was never bored, and mytime was full. t felt good about where I wasand what I wasdoing.Shelter was simply naturalcover. A thick pine was oftenthe roof of my home. A tangle of vines was often a room. I sel-dom sought theseplacesfor shelter.Rather, I usedthem ashidingplacesfrom which to observewildlife.

The white man builds a shelter, and it becomeshisprison. He shuts out the cleansingelements. He shuts out thesun, the wind, and the rain. He separateshimself from the earthand refusesto budge. Therefore he is always sick.I was living as the fox lived. I soughtfreshair, sunshine,and good water. Stalking Wolf told me that when it cametime forman to stop moving, the world would stop. I kept moving.The summer rains refreshedme. I seldom sought shelterfrom them. Most people get chilledfrom the rain. I don't. I relaxand let it flow through me and cleanseme. I found that I couldeven sleepin the rain. I learnedthat the elementswere not adver-saries.They were my brothers.When the sun was hot, I would find a cool streamandspend my time communing with the waterlife. It was during one of

those hot days that I discovered the location of my winter home.I was following a deep stream. I had been in and out of itall day. It was late in the afternoon, and many of the animalswould be coming to the banks of the streamto drink. I decidedtofloat silently down the stream and observe. I'm glad I did.The first visitors to the stream I passedwere a family ofskunk walking singlefile. On the bank I sawthe rutted areawherethey had been digging for insects. I was turned upsbeam and


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One Yearof Suruiual/ 127floatingbackward. I didn't seethe log, and when [ floated into it,the noise athacted the skunks.When the mother'stail went up,I went down. I dived and swam underwaterfor as long as I couldhold my breath. I came to the surfacein a lake. The sun was set-ting. lt turned the waters red. Sea gulls floated serenely on itssurface.A bassbroke water. A herd of deer came out of the pinesand began to drink. I had surfacedin Eden, I thought.The place seemeda paradise.Game was everywhere.The lake was teeming with life. Wild rice grew in its shallowsalongwith cattailand reed. All could be eaten. I felt that this placecould support me through the winter.I constructed a fish trap in the stream. I gathered berries,roots, and nuts and taught the animalsto trustme. The hours anddays I spent by the lake will always be sacred.Summer was giving way to fall. Another season.Another vision. Here is what I had done with my summer ofgentle wanderings.

I was clothed in a breechcloth made from a rabbit hidethat I took with a rabbit stick the first day I entered the Barrens.I had feasted on wild plants, roots, and berr iesand had not lostany weight. I had acquired a spear and had fire-hardened thepoint, and had a medicinepouch for all my preciouspossessions.My possessionswere these: a pebblefrom the bank of asheam that had fed me happily for a week, an acorn from an

especially magnificent oak that had kept me company througha summer storm, the feather of a scarlettanager, and a snappingturtle'segg. Such was my heasure. And I was happy.

FaII: Inner VisionsWhen fall came, I decidedto staythroughthe winter months,besidethe shallowlakefed by deepsheamsand cold springs.Itswaterswerealivewithfish,itsreedsfilledwith aquaticbirds,itsbanksteemingwith all mannerof wildlife.[t wasan Edenwhereall that nature had to offerwaspresentas a gift. All I had to dowasreachout and acceptthe gift freelygiven.

Nearby,there was a wild wheat field, and around its


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128/The Searchedgesgrew berriesof every nature-blackberry, wild grape, andraspberry. It was as if they had been planted specificallyto feedme. The treeswere filled with the songs of birds, and game trailsand runs crisscrossedthe area in profusion.The sun dancingacrossthe clearlake hurt my eyes,andthe reflection of the many colored leaves in its mirrored surfacefilledmy heartwith joy. It wasa naturalVan Gogh. Brill iantcolorsswirlingfrom the water to meet the trees, blue, bright, and deepsurroundingall. This would be my home.Besidethis lake I named simply Eden, I built a hogan.It was small. I made it of mud and rocksand logs.The wallswerethick, and there was a small stone firebox in one corner. Thefloor was earth strewn with pine boughs. I changedthe boughsperiodically. In amongst them I tossed herbs and wild flowers.I hung roots to dry along the walls, as well as leavesfor tea andflowers for seeds. The aroma, unlike that of most animal dens offeces and sweat, was of nature'smost pleasingsmells.

There were no windows in my small home. The dooropened east onto the lake. The morning sun reflectingfrom thelake warmed the hogan and woke me early. I would rise,stretch,and plunge into the lake evety morning till it frozesolid. Whenthat happened, I would run to the sheam that fed the lake,striding through the snow barefootedand bathe in the clear coldwater. I had very little reactionto the cold. The winter was no dif-ferent from the summer. My body adjustedas I learnednot tofight the cold but instead to accept it.In the bank of the stream, I cut a smoking rack. I builtmy fire close to the water'sedge and directed the smoke througha mud tunnel up through the fishand venisonthat I carefullylaidon racks. I laid up a great store of smoked meat for the winter thisway. The early frost, which turned the leavessuchbrilliantcolors,the early flight south of the migratory birds,and the freneticactionof the squirrelsmade me suspecta long, hard winter.I had not desireto hunt during the winter months. I didnot want to compete with the local wildlife for the meagerfoodavailableduring a long winter. I wanted to hibernate.I wanted tomeditate and dream. I wanted to observeand experiencewinterin all its natural fiercenessand learn from it. I did not want to bebothered with survival. As the other seasonswould be, so Iwanted this to be a season of spiritual experience.


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One Yearof Suruiual/ 129The geesewere arriving and leavingstraightaway.Theyweren'tstayingas I had observed in past years.The leavesof theswamp maple and oak were red and yellow. The wind that blewfrom the north was cold. I awoke to a thin layer of ice on Eden.It would not be long before the warm sun would relinquish itshold on the lake to the ice, unable in the short hours of the winterday to tug it from winter'sgrip. Soon I would be unableto plungethrough the hardenedwater into the heart of the lake and wouldhave to seek my morning bath elsewhere.The rabbitsate fiercely, building their winter coats andlayersof fat to seethem through the cold time ahead.The ground-hogs searchedfor a winter hibern,ation,and the turtles began todisappearfrom the lake. I watched one dig deeply into the mudaround the lake'sedge. They utereexpecting a cold winter.The blue jays followed the geese,and chipmunksscur-ried over the rocks full-pouched, carrying seedsto their winterretreats.Seed-eatingbirdsremained. The sparrowsand cardinalsrefused to reheat with the robin. The bluebird lined his nest forwinter. The meadow grasses were heavy with seed. I hadgatheredmuch for winter gruel. The birchesand ash were seed-heavy. Nature provided for her friends.The squirrels chattered and squealed as they buriedacornsand seedsand piled pine cones around tree stumps.Oak and pine would spread, and there would be yetmore fruit in the Great Spirit's forest for winters to come. Theanimals don't hoard. Nature won't allow that. Their hoardingturns to dispersion.I watched the white-footed mouse store seeds and theshort-tailedmousesearchout mole tunnels that would lead to thesucculentroots of plants and meadow bulbs. He would winterbeneath the snow and have plenty to eat.The skunk and the raccoon remained steadfastin theirsummer homes. They could hibernatethrough the coldestsnow-covered weeks. They were capable of long winter naps.During the fall, I hunted and fished. I conshucted a fishtrap in one of the sheams and speared hout there periodically.I fishedwith bone hooks and spear for pickereland bass. TheseIcleanedand smoked. I buried some near my hogan in a log-linedpit, which had a heavyflat rock for a lid. Some I put in a food boxinsidemy hogan. This box was a deephole lined with flat stones.


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One Year of Suruiual/ 731ter, he would never escapethe wild dogs'fangs. I decidedthatthe Great Spirit had sent him to me. I would take this gift andthank the Great Spirit for the earth'sbounty.The brown buck broke through the underbrushjust asthe sun beganto dip, red, below the horizon. It was a silhouetteof former majestyas it stood againstthe red and gold backdrop,sniffing and searching the field for signs of danger. A cardinalsangan eveningsong. No animalwarned of my presence.I wasnot there. I was an aspen.Each time the noble beastdipped its head to graze orturned to nibbleon leaves,I moved. I carriedmy speardirectlyinfront of my body and steppedsilentlyover the dry grass.I movedwith the wind and the birdsong,feeling my way carefullyacrossthe meadow.When the buck lifted its head, lfroze. Deer cannotdiscernbetweena man and a tree unlessman moves. A deer seesmovement. I stood motionless.I was an aspen.The sun wasalmostasleep.The moon had not yet takenchargeof the night. An owl awoke. Somewhere a fox barked. Imoved in twilight, a shadow stalkingever closerto my quarry.I was three stepsfrom his huge flank. His breath filled the coolnight air. The sound of his chewingechoed in my head, reelingwith the excitementof beingso closeto sucha formidableanimal.If he sensedmy presence,he would be off in great boundingleaps,despitehis lameness.If I were a pack of dogs,I would runhim down, and he would kil l one or two of us before we felledhim. But I am a man and must rely on my cunningfirstand thenon my strength.His head was down again. I drew my spearbackto oneside,took two slow stepstoward the deer'sheart, and lunged witha twistingbody motion. I drove the speardeep into hischestandpiercedhisheart.He fellwhere he stood. His eyeswerewide withastonishment,and I felt gratitudeashe realizedhow and by whathe was to die. It all happenedin an instant,but he knew.I walked back to camp in the dark with the deer drapedover my shoulders.What I did was right. I felt a senseof satisfac-tion and spoketo the Great Spirit: "Thank you for the meat andthe hide of thisfine an imal. He must have had many good yearsand fathered many fawns in his time. I am happy that I could


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732/The Seorchfulfill his life and that he could die honorably at my hands. I shallmake a robe and wrap myself againstthe cold winds and think ofhis good life. Perhaps it will enable me to dream."

I made a robe from his great skin. I left the fur on so thatit would provide added insulation.I was looking forward to the winter. I wanted the silenceitssnow cover promised. I longed for its long nightsand clear coldair, which would clearmy mind and give me time to meditateanddream. Wisdom comes to us in dreams, and winter is the timefor Creaming.Stalking Wolf often made mention of a very specialtimein his life when he had spent the winter months in the northernmountains. He called it snow-cover winter. It was during thosemonths that he had become convinced of the futility of the whiteman's ways. He related fondly how he sat almost naked in thesnow and felt his body elevated beyond the cold as he relaxedand gave himself to the earth. He said that it wasthen that he was

convinced that the Indian'sways were correct.They lived life as itought to be lived. The white man lived a lie.I had enough meat to last me through the winter. Istashed nuts and grassesand leaves, herbs and roots for soupsand teas. I was ready. My moccasins were made, as were mybuckskins. I had rabbit mittensand fur-lined slippersand enoughdeadfall timber piled around my hogan to warm my body andcook my food.Come winter. Come dreams.These Barrensare mine. They give me meat and cloth-ing. I know sheams and springsand lakeswhere fish dance andflash in the sun. The Barrens say, "Come and eat of my bounte-ous goodness. Come, take my game from the land and fish frommy waters." The Great Spiritendowed His people with a pleasantclimate and all they needed for shelter and clothing. I felt equallyblessed.I communed with the elements.I drank the rain, and Irose and set with the sun. One morning late in the seasonof innervision I rose to the sun fighting through the mist that guarded thelake at night. I steppedto the water's edge, and noticed the mistswirling like hundreds of dancersmoving beforethe wind. I threwhandfuls of clear, cold water into my face and plunged in bodily.


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One Yearof Suruiual/ 133I stood erecton shoreafter my bathbeforethe advancingdawn. Ifaced the sun dancingdimly on the horizon. In my heart I offeredan unspoken invocation filled with thanksgiving.My daily devotions had become through the monthsmore necessaryto me than food. How I long now for thosesilentmornings besidethe lake! A fish jumped, a bird awakenedwith amorning song.The smell of the sweetearthrose to greetme frombeneath my feet. And the silenceministeredto my soul.I learned to worship as the Indian worshipped. When-ever I came upon something beautiful, be it a clear spring linedwith liliesor a thunderhead silhouettedagainstthe sun, a majestichart or a warren of baby bunnies so young that they wele pinkand blind, I would stop for an instantin an attitudeof worship. Allmy dayswere sabbaths,sincethey all belongedto the GreatSpirit.The wind rose steadilyand blew the dancersfrom thelake and chased the clouds acrossthe sun. The wind is a freespirit, I thought. Today I will run with the wind and race the sun.Many times during my year alone I would break into a run for thesheerjoy of feeling the wind in my hair and the tautnessof mymuscles.I would give a war whoop and take off after a rabbit orbreak through a herd of grazingdeer. It felt good to stretchmymuscleshard and beat my feet againstthe earth with greatburstsof speed. It was a celebration.My joy was so great that I couldn'tcontain it. It would break out in a screamingrun acrossfields andthrough woods.Today, I would run for endurance. There was an ideathat I had been chasing in my dreams through the night. I hadseen a young Indian boy running acrossa desert with a hugestone in his arms. I don't know how long he had been running,but when he came to his village, he ran to an old man, droppedthe stoneat his f.eet,and upon a nod from the old warrior he spata mouthful of water on the stone. He had run through thirst witha mouthful of water! Why? Somehow I knew that it was tied tosurvival. Some day he might have to spend days in the desertwith a limited amount of water and have to havel many miles tosurvive. But what was the dream saying to me? There was onesure way to find out. Run!" I grabbed my spear and ran toward the rising sun. Ifollowed game hails and old roads, leaped over narrow sheams


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134lThe Searchand plunged through thickets.I had decidedthat nothing wouldimpede my travelingeast.As I loped I would trade hands with thespear.At timesI would rest it on my shoulder.Whenever I cameto a clearing, I would toss the spear at an imaginary target andsweep it from the ground as I ran by. I never stopped running.I ran on through the morning til l the sun was high. Ikicked up game in every field and thicket. I ran quietly, lopingmostly, and would be upon the rabbits,pheasants,quail, evendeer before they had time to run or concealthemselves.When Iran into deer, I would take off after them and laugh as theybounded gracefullyaway through the pines with their white tailsraisedin alarm.Midday I'rested. I lay down in the leavesbeneath anoak, read the mouse tracks, listenedto the squirrelthat chattercdover my head and chewed on a piece of smoked venison.Thesun was moving in and out of clouds, which told of a comingstorm. The air was cooling considerably.I watched a cardinalsearchthe ground for seeds.We muqt all be strongand preparedfor the worst, I thought. We must all havethe strengthto survive.But how was the wil l related to the strength?The wind kicked leavesup all around me. I will knowstrength if I know the freedom of the wind. I stood and begantorun again. I ran with the wind. I racedthe sun. I could reach mycamp before nightfallor fail the test. Somewhere, deep inside, adecision had been made for me. My spiritualshengthwould bemeasuredby my physicalendurance.The two werenot the same,but they were tied to eachother. The one lent insightto the other.This was the test. My body must follow my spirit'scommands,or perish.Where survival depends on disciplineand strength,aperson must be able to push himself beyond the normal bound-ariesof physicalendurance.I had often pushed myself. I woulddo it again. I would passthe test my soul had set, or leavetheBarrens before winter. If I could not beat the sun to camp, I knewthat I would never survivethe winter.I found myselfdriven to lengtheningmy stride and seek-ing a more direct route of travel. I broke through more thicketsand refrained from chasingthe four-leggedsI ran across.My bodyseemed to respondto the added demandsfor speedwith thanks-


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One Yearo/ Suruiual/ 735giving. I felt only elation as I sped through the difficult terrain.I wasa bird on the wing racingto my roost. When a branch lashedmy side, I felt exhilaration,whipped on ever faster by my spirit.My body responded to every challenge with joy and agility.lt sang. The sun was sinking in a dark cloud like a ball of firewhen I broke through the underbrush that separatedthe woodsfrom my lake. My heart was filled at that moment as the streamsare filled with water when the snow melts in spring. My strengthwould endure. The winter was mine for dreaming! "Whoop . . .Whooeee!" I screamedas I dived into the lake and swam to theshore by rny hogan.As I climbed from the lake, the last red rays of the sundisappearedinto the night. I stood before it in silence.I offered aprayerof thanksgivingto the Great Spirit. All that could be heardin the great silencewas the wild beating of my heart. The GreatSpirit had smiled on me and made me glad.

Winter: Snoro CooerAs I had suspected,the snowswere heavy that winter. The nightswerelong and the silencesdeep.l spoke little duringthosemonthsand discovereda spiritualbalanceof body, mind, and spirit. I be-came like the snow-coveredforest about me. Silent.StalkingWolf had told me that the holy silencewas theGreatSpirit'svoice. He encouragedlong periodsof speechlesslis-tening. He urged me to understandthe great mystery of silence.The white man seemsto think that speechis some sort of proof ofsuperiorityover dumb creation.It is not. It is but one of the manygifts the Great Spirit has given to man. To the Indian, silenceisthe cornerstoneof character.I sought my characterthrough the fruits of silence,aidedby the snow cover. I worked all winter in the wind and snow withbare arms and legs,and seldomfelt the cold. I wore a breechclothmuch of the time and bathed in the stream. The Great Spiritsmiled on me and kept me healthy.Each day I would notice the animal tracks in the snow


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136/The Searchabout my hogan. Mice lived in my woodpile. Cardinalscame toeat some of the seedsI tossedoutside about the door. The squir-rel dug tunnels to its caches of nuts. The rabbitswere alwaysactive, as was the fox. A raccoon, the eternalscavenger,camenightly to my door. The deer had a winter lie in a thick standofpines acrossthe wheat field and stayed closeto home.Late one afternoon, as it began to snow, I walked intothe middle of the wild wheat field, and dug through the snowcover to the ground. I placed a fur rug on the exposedground,wrapped myself in my robe, and sat. There I waited to observethe storm.The snow fellwet and heavy. It fell in greathugeflakes.Icould almost make out their individual, intricatepatternsas theydrifted by -y vision. When one landed on my robe, the patternits outline formed momentarily made visible the beauty naturebestowed on this tiny part of creation.A fox came to the edge of the clearingand sniffed thesnow-laden air for prey. It made its way around its perimeterlikea shrewd cat, soundlessly.One last foray before the storm. I hadnoticed some rabbit markings as I entered the field. Perhaps hewould have a rabbit to fill his stomach through the storm. I won-dercd what he would think when he came to my moccasinprintsand human scent.He would look out into the fieldfor a man. Hewould see a mound beingcoveredwith snow. Would he think mea fallen deer? No, not the cunning fox. He would know themound was a man. Yet, he would be perplexed. Man seeksshelterin the storm. The fox knew only the white man.By nightfall the treesand busheswere strugglingunderthe weight of the heavy snow cover. I was almost completelyburied. Eachpine bough carrieda burden thatseemedtoo heavy.I ached for their shaining tissues.The bircheswere beginningtheirslow swing to the ground.The forest, nature's university, instructed me. If manwants to learn, all he has to do is turn to the Great Spirit'sbook,creation, and read through observation.I read that afternoonandthrough the night, and learnedmuch.The hardwood trees stand staunch against the heavyadvance of the snow. They gather it in their branchesto see whocan hold the greatestweight. They neither yield nor bend. Theyeither stand or break. The forestwas filled with the sound of dead


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One Yearof Suruiual/ 137branchescrackingunder the strain.They would snap loudly fromtheir trunks and crashthrough the treesto the forestfloor. Naturepruning her trees.

. The softwood trees dipped under the snow's weight.They were content to bend rather than break. They had learnedto survivea differentway. They would bend to the breakingpoint,shed their snow cover, and spring back to gather more.I must face the storms of life in the same manner. Ilearnedfrom the hardwoodsthat there was a time when I shouldstand and not yield, a time to be pruned by experience. Therewas also a time to bend and yield to inevitablepressuresso that Imight springback to faceanother day. I was the hardwood; I wasthe softwood. I was all of creation, and it was all of me. Toseparatemy understandingof man and nature into differentcate-gorieswould be disashous.I would never understand either.

The snow treatedme as part of the landscape.It driftedover me. Covered me completely. I was a drift over a bush orrock. It became my friend. It insulated me from the cold.Night fell. The snow continued. The silenceincreased,broken only by the sounds of branchessnapping and crashing'The night birds were silent. The fox never barked. By morninglight afwas coveredunder nature'sprotectivewhite, silentcover.The sunlightfilteredthrough my coveringand beckonedme to reach out to her. The birds were chirping. Their calls weremuffled through the snow cover. The snow softens the hard-frozen winter world. It gives an intimacy to the immediate sur-roundings. Sounds, unable to carry far before being swallowedup by the soft snow cover, never invade from any great distance'fh"i" is only you and the life directly about you, surrounded,protected, and blanketedby the snow cover.I answeredthe sun'sbeckoningsand dug a hole throughmy covering at eye level and was immediately dazzled by theUrigntrefleciion on the snow. Well more than a foot covered theground. The pine boughsbowed to the morning, the laurel curt-sied. The birch touched its head to the ground, humbled beforethe awesome, royal power of nature.A rabbit dug its way out from under a laurel bush. Hehied valiantly to support himself on the soft snow. The snowwould hold his weight for only a moment and then begin toswallow him. After three hops, each deeper into the snow, he


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One Yearof Suruiual/ 739and the serenityof worship. He had shown me His creation,and Ihad seen. I thanked Him silentlY.At midday, I broke out of my igloo. I took a deep breathand pushed myself straightup through the snow and spread myarms wide, shetching toward the sun. I smiled. I laughed, myhead lay back, suckingthe cold air from the starkblue sky. A red-tailed hawk, circling overhead, dipped momentarily, startled atthe strangesight he had just witnessed.A giant beardedbutterflyhad just burst from the bowels of the earth.Snow cover had been good medicine.I was hungry'

Spring.' Fox FindTracking in the spring mud is like following footprints acrossadesertedbeach. My mind can wander through the forest,pickingup bird calls,drinking in the yellow green of the new growth pine,and feelingthe afternoonsun take the chill out of the early springair. It is fun. It is easy. I was following a fox. He stepped lightlyand quickly. He turned swiftly to follow some familiar scent, butdecided not to follow. Here he dug through the leaf cover andtook a shrew, tearingit from its tunnel home. There on a flat rockexposed to the slanting rays of the sun, he devoured it. Bits ofgray fur clung to the rock.I followed his hail off toward a sheam. He expected tocatch some small animal watering itself before it retired for theevening.He stoppedby a well-worndeer trail. Here he crouched,his chest marking the ground. I could see the depressionsmadeby his heavy breathing. He was searchingfor signs of danger.This cunning predator was prey for the fearsome dog packs thatstill roamed the Pine Barrens.They frequented the deer trails.I stopped to checkthe deer hacks. The doe were heavy,pregnant with fawn. This was a small herd, accompanied by asmall, young buck. A robin landed on the trail and plucked aworm from the mud and leavesas easilyas I would a persimmonfrom a tee. Remarkable hunters. He was a deep-red-breastedmale, the first I had seen this spring. A good-medicinesign.

,,You're early." I spoke to him with my eyes. He looked


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740/The Seorchsurprisedto seea man where lastyear there had been only deer.The males came first. They establishedtheir territories.In a week,maybe two, the femaleswould arrive and courtshipwould begin.Spring is here!I looked again at the deer tracks and saw somethingamong them I could hardly believe-a child'ssneakerprint. [t waslessthan an hour old. I scannedthe areafor adult prints.None.This spot was miles from the nearestroad. "Lost."I sighted the sun. There was an hour's light left. Hewould keep to the trail as long as it was light, but I'd betterhurry. Istartedto run in the direction his tracks led me. My mind racedahead of me to what might lie down the trail. Were there anydeepstreams,pits, quick, and flats?No. Dog packs?I quickenedmy pace.By his tracks I could tell the child was a boy about fortypounds and left-handed. His toes pointed out, and he oftenshuffledthrough the leavesand mud. He was exhausted,movingon nervous energy. He was too afraid to stop, and he had anhour's lead on me.There was a new moon. The night would be black.Theboy would never be able to keep to the trail. A crow called, andstarlingsflew dishessedfrom their roosts as I crashedthrough theunderbrush in pursuit of the little boy.Where had he come from? There was a deepwatercreekin the

tom brown jr 1980 - the search - text - kilroy

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