Drinking in White River

Tuesday afternoon while out wandering the landscape, bow in hand, Grey sees a bear. We follow him down the road a couple hours later to look at the tracks. Bears have opposite feet--their big toes are on the outside of the foot. This fascinates me. I plot my diagonal summer camp walking plans. Are my bare feet big enough to look like bear feet? Worth a try.

So much has changed since that first trip to the Dunes months ago. When I kneel down to look at the toe prints of something, the information rattles out of me. Quick. Confident. Five toes. We see claws. Grey said he smelled a skunk. These tracks belong to a skunk. Grey says it's striped, not spotted, that it'd be a smaller print if it was spotted. I still can't tell what said skunk is doing--I don't understand animal gaits very well. It's hard for me to visualize.

In our disagreement over a different print (I'm wrong; it's a deer...not a duck...long story), I take the correction, swiftly given, with humility. Respect. Appreciation. Nobody's got time for ego here.

Again, a few minutes later, a fellow student and I discuss whether a print is an elk or a deer. He comments on the substrate--it's mud, the print sunk in deep. He suspects that the mud makes the print look bigger. I mention the stride length--too small for elk. Twenty feet past where we're looking, the print shrinks to deer-sized where the mud gets harder. He called it. I compliment him. Even the fact that I'm still able to learn something about tracking for longer than fifteen minutes at a time has changed. My attention span and appetite for this skill is stretching. Maybe I'll take notes on what I'm looking at, even learn to sketch, one of these days. 

I'm sick. With a cold. It hits me light on Tuesday evening -- I go to bed at 9 PM -- and heavy on Wednesday morning.

I spend Wednesday in my tent, baking in the hot sun. The heat is unpleasant but I stay sweating, figuring that the sweat will draw out the sick.

Someone gives me Grape Seed, Oregon Grape, a Burdock tincture. I down garlic like I'm vampire hunting. I don't have any antihistamines, Nyquil, ibuprofen. I sneeze and hack and basically quarantine myself. I'm disgusting. I won't touch the kitchen. I'm washing my hands after every sneeze, with soap, though maybe that's not, strictly speaking, what a hunter-gatherer would do. I'll take germ theory for $500, Alex. Other people start dosing themselves with Grape Seed as a preventative.

With the cold comes the opportunity to hang out in camp and work on projects, which is pretty much my favorite thing. This is a beautiful place, serene, isolated, and all I want is to drink it in. I'm not as much of a wanderer as the men, even when I'm not sick. That might be a gender thing, but there's no real way to tell--I've been the only woman in this class since October. Maybe I'm just not fit enough for real hiking. I suspect my physical capabilities are the main barrier to my desire to wander. 

Wednesday morning, someone sleeps in his blind, wakes up early, calls in a turkey, takes a shot. Even a miss is, at our level, incredible. The story shall be told down through the eons.

I take the morning off, then finish my cedar basket in the afternoon. It takes everyone to remember how to finish the top line, but we figure it out eventually. It's enormous. I shall carry ALL the things on our survival capstone next week. 

One of us encounters some careless hunters who are aimlessly firing their gun, a peashooter, off into random directions. Later, three of us take a trek down the road to where they're parked in an effort to impart some education on gun safety. I ask if the men want me along--a woman can be helpful for this sort of encounter. I'm thinking, "disarming, non-confrontational, non-threatening." But one of the men jokes that I'm, "tough as fuck." So, come along, See.

I do. Even while I'm still sneezing and wheezing on a walk that's really too long for how I'm feeling and my level of hydration, I grin. Tough as fuck. I like that. I don't feel that way, but I'll take the perception of other people for $500 too, Alex.

Thursday night Grey and I have a conversation where he explains it's not uncommon for people in immersive outdoor programs like this one to go through big life changes. It's not uncommon, in fact, for people to discover that their tolerance for bullshit has dropped significantly. It's not uncommon for people to get divorced. I tell him maybe his class should have a disclaimer while people are signing up.

Grey remarks, "Unhappy with your marriage? Come to Grey and I'll help you sort that shit out." I chortle, but...

I'm in the process of getting a divorce.

I've changed my first name, on a casual level, with most people I interact with. Haven't tried to make it stick with family--my need to bend others to my will just isn't that high, anymore. Call me Laura, call me See, just don't call me late for dinner!

My summer plans have changed--I'm working for Trackers, full time. My dedication and interest in this field is leading me to pursue further studies next year, probably in Montana. Back to the Rockies, where I'm from.

Thursday night, I'm still sick, but restless. And recovering. I pack up my tent, load most of my gear in the van, then walk out to my blind with my bed roll and bow. I haven't been out here to check on it the way the men have gone to theirs. The sage brush I cut has died. I regret cutting it; it provides so little camouflage now. Death in the service of death disquiets me. But there's nothing for it. It'd be a shame to not even use the blind.

I don't have a turkey call--I have no expectation of hunting for real. Still, I go through the exercise of setting up my chair, my bed roll, twisting a broad-head on to one of my arrows, propping my bow up off the ground. Then I crash at 9 PM and sleep like the dead, except for the two or three times I wake up because...well. That's what happens when you're camping. It's hot, I'm too hot. I spend the night stewing in sweat. Such a change from the snow shelter trip, which wasn't that long ago.

In the pre-dawn, my motivation to sit in my chair with a strung bow in my hand pretending to hunt turkey just isn't there. The chances of one pecking past my blind at about the 5 yards I can realistically hit is so close to zero that it isn't worth getting up. I don't even string my bow. I loll around in my sleeping bag, listen to the coyotes howl and bark to my east and west. The bird song is incredible, vibrant, so sweet I can taste the notes in the morning air. 

When the sun is fully up, I pack up my gear. Sit in my chair. Listen to the birds. Watch the grass grow. Flies replace the mosquitoes I've been idly swatting at for two hours.

When someone else walks past a few hundred yards away after leaving their blind and heading towards camp, I decide it's time to pack it in and start back.

There are two weeks left in this program. The short time makes reflection inevitable. What's next? Where am I going? What do I want? I feel equipped, now, in a way I haven't been in years, to work on the answers to these questions and others. I don't know the answers, not really, and I'm not sure I ever will have definite answers. There have been so many lessons this year. So many experiences. I'm still integrating.

I trudge out of my blind, burdened with my gear, still sniffly, heading back towards the van. The blue sky and the birdsong follow me. I carry this place with me. I carry this year with me, going into next week--our capstone survival trip--and going into the rest of my life.

View out my blind in the White River area. Photo taken by See.