deep woods insurance
by bam
i bolted out of bed, knowing a boy i love, the first one i pushed onto this planet, was being dropped in the woods far, far away. all at once i felt propelled to cover all my bases. my prayer bases, that is.
drop to knees. check.
go to church. check.
light candle. check.
build altar. as directed.
and thus began the gathering. the two bird eggs i collected this bird birthing season, the robin’s blue, the sparrow’s spotted (which looks, deliciously, like one you might find filled with malted milk powder should you find it in your easter basket). the leafy nest to hold them. a sprig of pine from in the woods. a curl of bark, as well.
then i wandered to my garden, clippers at the ready. i snipped the finest soft pink roses, and a little stem of yarrow. long ago, i learned, any self-respecting altar is always blessed with snippings from the garden.
once again, i built my prayer tableau. there on the little shelf, beside all my books, in the little room that is my own. my writing room. my breathing room. the room i tiptoe into, close the door, retreat.
i put in a call, yes i did, to the grownup depositing the camper in the woods. asked him to please bring home some bits of woods to add to my collection. the grownup i called has lived with me now for nearly 16 years, so he hardly groans when he gets such calls. he just scrounges on the ground, comes home with pockets filled.
i of course did not wait for his return. i had that altar up and ready before the backpack, far away, was off the camper’s back. before he’d settled in the dingy cabin that will hold him ’til he makes the crossing, before he goes deeper into the woods, onto an island, amid an archipelago, where no car, no lights, no running water will rustle the surroundings. except for tromping feet and teenage boys–egad–the sanctuary is undisturbed.
now, of course, you know by now that the camper for whom i altar (that there would be an alteration: a noun used as a verb; henceforth, the building of an altar) is my firstborn child, the one i call the manchild for the razor that is calling his name, though he refuses to put it to his upper lip, preferring the ratty fuzz that grows there. but, despite all tonsorial evidence otherwise, he remains my baby boy. at least in spirit. and when one’s baby is dropped in the woods, one gets to seeking coverage.
divine coverage, of course. round-the-clock, 24/7, all-nite-diner coverage.
you do not leave these things to chance, you do not. certainly not when said manchild not so many months ago was in the woods, when he encountered a chipmunk, that set him swerving on his mountain bike, that hit a rock or maybe just a hole, and set him flying, headfirst over the handlebars, and landing on his face, which cracked back his neck, which left him with a fractured vertebrae that, by the grace of God, did not leave him unable to move his arms, his legs. (though, trust me, we brushed close enough to that nightmare, less than a fraction of a millimeter away, that a piece of me will never ever take for granted the wiggling even of his toes.)
perhaps there was some of that, just a shadow of the knowing that the boy and the woods had had a brief and not-so-distant encounter that had left him with a broken neck, and his mother with a forever sense of how, in an instant, a whole life script can be rewritten.
perhaps that was the thing that had me building me my altar. or perhaps, it was just that i am a believer in not doing all the lifting on my own.
when it counts, where it matters, i knock loudly on heaven’s door. anybody home, i yell, peering through the cracks. it’s me, and i’ve come to ask a favor.
i let loose like this, tell whoever might be listening: i’ve got this camper, you see, a true angel in the making, and he is going off, 60 pounds slung over his shoulders. it’s the tree roots i worry about him tripping over. landing splat. and then i hear something about some bears. heck, i thought mosquitoes might be pesty. but then i heard talk of bears. never mind the gnats, when you’ve got a hungry furry thing big enough to swallow your whole backpack. oh, geez, i forgot to whisper in his ear, steer clear of bears, please.
so, listen, if you’re home, in there, you behind celestial gates, would you mind keeping your eye on that long line of campers? mine’s the curly-haired one, looks like a mop, all boingy and sticking out. but there is a whole string of boys i love marching with him. and i’d really appreciate you making sure all is well, stays well.
that’s pretty much the story as i unspooled it. the way i talk to God. i spell it out. be specific. leave little to interpretation.
then i take it up a notch. make sure that ol’ petition is not lost in all the airwaves bouncing around the globe, some en route to heaven, but plenty just to cell phones. i think the air is getting crowded, what with all the wireless connections.
so you see, i’ve built this little altar. i believe in these things. if you build it, the saints and angels will come, will surround the ones you love. will keep them safe from bears and trippy tree roots.
it is, i’m certain, a vestige of being a girl who grew up with a mama who had little altars in windows everywhere. my mama is the may altar queen. only she doesn’t stop at may. she goes year-round. my mama has altars in february. my mama knows prayer like nobody’s business.
and so, once again, i am my mother’s daughter. i grew up believing that prayer, like the soundest allstate policy you could afford, covered you. kept you safe from bears and bad guys. and so i pray.
i am old enough, been banged around enough, to know that sometimes there are cracks in the policy. sometimes the bears get through. so do the bad guys.
but who really knows that popping a vitamin pill gets the calcium where it belongs? have you ever seen it land where it’s supposed to? seen it knock on your leg bone, slide in, settle down?
well, i have seen prayer make miracles. i’ve got one sleeping upstairs in an old, old bed, for starters.
but i also know, despite the outcome, even when the end result is not the one i asked for, along the way, prayer fills me with a calm that can only be divine.
little old me cannot take on the world, or just the woods. but me, backed up by prayer, and my woodsy altar, my altar that looks like someone took a hike and emptied her pocket there on the ledge, we can bring on a miracle: i can be the mama of a boy in the deepest woods, and i can be not afraid.
that, my friends, is a miracle of the highest order.
do you have prayer insurance? do you light candles? build altars? do you put your worries in the hands of someone, something far sturdier than you? have you ever felt a prayer be answered? a load lifted that you could never have carried all on your own? do tell….
and by the way, i started something new on the lazy susan. a little thing. an everyday poetry dept. it is a place for language, heard in the course of the everyday, that sets you over the moon. a phrase. an expression. a way of putting something. we are collecting, starting now. if you hear something wonderful, let me know. we will tuck it in the everyday poetry dept.
one other thing, would you mind keeping my blessed beloved bec and david in your prayers today? they are saying goodbye to dou, bec’s cat of 13 years. dou walked in off the street at a lowpoint in both their lives, bec’s and dou’s. they found each other, loved each other all these years. saying goodbye to a dear and precious friend is achingly hard. especially when the purring goes away.
my love to them this tough tough day.
hey fred,beautiful piece. you’ve articulated so well, so poetically, so spiritually the fears we both feel and the need for divine assistance to get the manchild through the trip unscathed. surely other parents with kids in camp can releate.btw, it’s moose, not bears, that they have up there on isle royale or royal or however you spell it. wolves, too. we just need to hope and pray that the manchild does not get between a mama moose and a baby moose.love,fred (a.k.a the guy you’ve lived with for 16 years)
dear fred, hate to add to your worry beads–i too hadn’t known about the bears. only the mooses (an animal i will forever relate to montana and glacier, and the one we spotted nine million years ago), but i spoke to woodsman bri over the weekend, and he tells me bears too are in the mix. indeed indeed. only not grizzlies. just hungry black ones. so now we have yet another northwoods critter quandry: once we were told there were sloths in the woods on sleeping bear, now we need some expert to weigh in on the large mammals of isle royal (i believe royale would make it a gambling casino kind of place, non? hmm just looked it up, it is royale). any ursine experts out there? are there bears AND wolves AND mooses on the grand casino island? two worried grownups need to know. only one is not worried any more ’cause she built an altar and she and he and all the rest are covered. and grammy’s huntin’ down a st. christopher medal as i type. us catholics, we keep things covered…..
OK, so I built no altar, but rather sent a talisman, eager to charm our hiker’s way — but what a mixed message I sent! “Rely on yourself,” I said. “You will see, living like a turtle, that you are stronger than you have ever believed.””I believe in you,” I said, “but just in case, here’s a little charm. . .”Then, smiling at myself, I tried to explain. Because truly, I think, believing in is different than relying on. And believing in a charm or a talisman is important because it can calm us, can help us feel we are not in this alone. And thus bolstered we are able to think our way through and out of most situations that arise. Feeling alone and panicked, our family has learned, leads quickly to brains that shut down, creative problem solving abilities that disappear. (Besides — a little luck and extra help, from whatever source, is always welcome!)As for beasts. Bears, I understand, do not make their homes on Isle Royale (they aren’t big into gambling casinos) (sorry). Evidently, they are too busy hibernating in winter and aren’t available to make the 14 mile hike across frozen water. Wolves, awake all winter, have made the trek. And moose are terrific swimmers.So here’s hoping our altar-protected, talisman-carrying children have sunny skies, challenging trails, awesome moose sightings and wonderful evening wolf serenades. All of which is beautiful background to what they will find inside themselves.
a st. christopher medal from grammie? well, as willie would say, “no worries.”
“experts” suggest that black bears are not currently found on isle royale. but there’s no reason to think they couldn’t have made it out there, thumbing that finely attuned nose at “expert” opinion. the greatest population density of blackies in the enitre USA sits about 80 miles southwest of isle royale out in the apostle islands archipelago of lake superior. now some of those apostles are further from the mainland than isle royale , which suggests isle royale is doable for a motivated bear. from the NPS’s own Glimpes of our National Parks : “Whether they have not made their appearance yet on these comparatively new islands, or whether, once here, they disappeared, is not known.”
OK, maybe the bears are thumbing their noses at the experts, but in this instance I think worried parents, even those who’ve created altars and sent talismans, should take solace in maps. Yes, the largest concentration of black bears in North America is supposedly on Stockton Island of the Apostle archipelago. There are also good numbers of them on two other islands closer to the mainland. But, Stockton is less than a two-mile swim from the nearest island, which is itself less than 2 miles from the mainland. In fact, most of the Apostles are less than two miles apart. It is at most 4 miles from Stockton to the outermost island. It is far easier to imagine that those clever black bears are island hopping their way through the Apostles than it is to believe that they are good enough swimmers to make it 14 miles from the mainland to Isle Royale. And considering that we’re not really looking for further evidence to cause altar-creators to worry further, how about this? If there are nose-thumbing blackies on Isle Royale, they are very busy keeping themselves hidden from all the hikers & park rangers who regularly traverse the trails. Which, one must hope, means that they will not be interested in blowing their cover by appearing this summer in front of altar-protected campers. Whew!
First of all, today’s meandering made me a bit homesick. I grew up on the shores of Gitchi Gummi, land of great sky waters (that is what the ojibiwe named Lake Superior). All I can say, knowing both the Great lake and your ansel…. manchild is that the two will be all the better for spending a month together. I can’t wait to see his photos upon his return. Was their room in his pack for a camera?I have been blessed by my days in Chicago, but life is a little bit different for me when I am near Lake Superior. Not only is Duluth where I grew up, but it is also my spiritual true north.I have built a few alters over the years, but more importantly for this Lutheran I received the protestant equivlant of rosary beads…. smooth stones that have been washed over by the mighty waters of Lake Superior. I have moved many times since I left Duluth last, but still I trek boxes of Lake Superior rocks with me from apartment to apartment. These rocks sit in a pottery bowl on my kitchen windowsill, they surround candles in my living room and when I owned a subaru station wagon they rested in the cup holder between the drivers seat. These rocks have rested in my hands as I have said many prayers for guidance in discernment, peace of mind, goodness for others and the earth. When I return to Chicago tomorrow I will be sure to pick up a rock and say a prayer for Ansel and for the two who have said prayers together over the last 16 years.Wait a second, I have a 5 hr bus trip to look forward to tomorrow between St. Louis and Chicago and I do believe there is at least one smoot stone in my book bag.I have given these rocks away to patients, to friends and family. I tell them that these smooth, beautiful and perfect rocks were once rugged and jagged, yet the waves, ice and cold temps of one of the mightiest and deepest lakes in the world has transformed these stones into smooth altar pieces that remind me that we are washed, cleansed and renewed, even in the storms of life and beauty can continue to reveal itself. may you know that not only does the spirit connect all of you, but the water that flows past your house will find itself lapping against isle royale sometime soon.
I have learned that what a parent worries about rarely comes to fruition (thankfully!)–especially where camp is concerned. However, it is the silly, little and unimaginable that occurs. Even if traumatic, the offspring survive.For example, at camp, my son was swimming for shore, misjudged the shallowness of the water (or that he’d grown 6 inches in a year), took a stroke, bumped his elbow on the bottom of the water that jammed his too-long finger nail (who cuts nails at camp?) into his thin skinned eye-lid, causing a long cut–thankfully not to the eye, just the lid. At another camp, the mean boy on the bottom bunk used his feet to jettison my sleeping son out of the top bunk onto the floor, cracking open his chin–resulting in a trip to the woodsy emergency room for stitches and a middle-of-the-night call to us parents. Another time, we got a call from the counselor for our daughter on a supposedly rugged outback hike in Colorado to say that they had rented mountain bikes and she fell off at full speed down a mountain discovering that no one taught her how to brake–she ended up at an ER with a scrap from her wrist, down her arm, through her ribs to her stomach. Or, how about the call after an offspring sat in a patch of poison ivy?I don’t know about bears in Isle Royale, but I remember portaging in the Boundary Waters and coming face to face with a bear on the trail. I stopped dead in my tracks, or I guess I might have been stopped DEAD by the bear who was on hind legs, then plopped to all fours and lumbered into the woods. I was carrying a canoe on my head.
little altars everywhere. inspired by my uber-catholic grandmother, i have tended to the nightstand variety for a lifetime. it started with mary (the may flavor like your mom) and a host of bisque saints, graduated to framed concert tickets and shots of high school beaus. there has been a spiritual boomerang back to little statues: a spirit shaker, placid japanese folk carving, a greek goddess and japanese wedding charms from a temple. these things work. prayers for those who set off into the woods work too. my mother can attest to this as can you as one of my well-wishers as i took off for the AT through maine. i will return the favor and offer up hiker incantations for will and give a good rattle of my ‘evil-spirit-hungry-bears-be-gone’ shaker on my bedside altar. although he takes to the woods at half the age i did, i’m sure willie is doubly more prepared than i was. i hope to join you for campfire stories of his trip when he returns.
hayduke, i am certain, recalls the comment of Doug Peacock, an American naturalist, outdoorsman, and author of “Grizzly Years: In Search of the American Wilderness,” a memoir of his experiences in the 1970s and 1980s spent alone in the wilderness of the western United States observing grizzly bears.Peacock served in the Vietnam War and, upon returning, felt so disillusioned with human society that he sought solace in the beauty of the wilderness. His passion for and firsthand experience with bears brought him recognition as an expert in grizzly behavior. More to the point, Peacock was a great friend of Edward Abbey, reverred in some circles. But enough of his “bona fides.” The comment was more or less like this: “Hell, it’s not wilderness unless there is something within striking distance that could eat you.”Let’s hear it for striking out from the civilized world. And imagine the milky way showing through an ink black night on isle royale!
excuse me while i sit and marvel at this blessed table. what started out as a thing about prayer, and the talismans we gather in the name of back-up power, in the name of something higher, greater, more embracing than any man-made invention, meandered along to much about bears, and then to gitchi gummi and the nps and a whole host of scary camping could-be ghost stories, and then the native shaker, and a japanese one two, only to wind on to this peacock fellow, and edward abbey, and remarks about hell…and a definition of wilderness that demands a fright as its upholding principle. you people are gorgeous and amazing. bless you each and every one. my friend will is so blessed to be upheld by each and every one of you. and you have made my altar spread clear across the country, that’s how vast it now is. your sweep takes my breath away……
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. (Proust)