Loz and the Rats Tale

The coast is clear…Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

The rat paused. Looking back and contemplating the decision to abandon his partner. The home had been safe for many generations after all, how were they supposed to know of the newly set trap? Soon a key would turn in the door alerting the naked-tailed thief of danger. A sign to leave. This time, member 3364 would be left behind, not that he would know it. He was dead. His back snapped in two like a hard taco shell which are occasionally stored in the great food supply. Their raid had proven successful up until the point 3364 brushed off the peanut butter warnings and, well, had his last taste. The sound of the key sliding into the lock shooed 1784. The two-leggeds had returned and as silently as the duo had entered, a lone rat slipped back into the hole under the sink.

Member 1784 did not dread a return to the colony alone, rat 3364, also known as Stub, was his fourth partner in pinching or, as commonly referred to, PIP. Loz had a display of feats swirling about his body, well earned too mind you. An ear cleft to commemorate the near escape from Regis the cat, a scar running the left side of his body where the missed hack of a machete nearly ended his career or the soft, circular, and quite disturbing protrusions of a BB that had passed through his belly leaving twin scars on either side. Loz was the head acquisition master, an underachieved title by most standards, but seeing as there was no higher status of acquisition, that is the title he held. 

“Ayyy Smokes! There’s Loz, let’um in” Fuz squeaked from the fountain lookout. Smokes, the rat known to vanish, pawed open the mason jar entry way for Loz. “Loz, good to see ya back. Where’s Stub?” asked Smokes innocently. “Stub won’t be returning to the nest any longer” Loz said as he entered the gateway. Smokes looked back towards the house knowing that soon the two-leggeds would be hunting their rat mischief, that life as he had known it would soon be moving on. 

“Loz, welcome back” rat 1139 said as she approached, knowing that the lack of doormen celebrating means nothing of good nature. “Thanks Cyta. The peanut butter got’em, after all the tales as a child, he still tempted the peanut butter…” Loz trailed off, clearly deep in thought, reflecting on the situation. “Were you two together at the time?” Cyta asked curiously, knowing that Loz would have prevented such a disaster. “No, I had gone to the Great Food Supply to gather a potato while Stub rummaged in the garbage. That’s when I heard the snap and gasping croak of...of..Stub..” Cyta embraced Loz, knowing that losing one of your grand-children carries a great pain, but is not uncommon in the life of a rat. Loz was of first generation at this nest, as was Cyta, hence the one in their numbering. Stub had been generation three as the first three in 3364 signifies. 

“Cyta, we need to call a meeting. It won’t be long before the two-leggeds begin to hunt us tirelessly.” Cyta, knowing that Loz was right, hung her head “I know, we must.” She said with a sigh. “I’ll ring the bell in ten minutes. You sit tight for a bit and clear your mind.” Cyta crawled off towards the high chambers. Loz, leaning against the wall, took a deep breath and sighed. He knew that he would have to state his case to the council in the high chamber. The council was made up of generation Zeros, the founders of this nest, the ones who migrated from the nest prior. All the gen Zeros are calloused and scarred from their travels here. They had completed the longest migration in rat history, losing two-thirds of their mischief along the way...and here Loz was, about to state his case for the nest to move, for everyone to leave their home.

The high council sat around the bowl, sipping the remnants of the fizzy liquid they had found in a bottle when Loz entered. “Loz” called the high master “We understand that Stub is no longer with us and that he was abandoned in the nest of the two-leggeds”. 

“Yes, that is the case, High Master.”

“And you have a proposition for us I presume?”

“Yes, I do, High Master.”

“Go on then, explain yourself” 

“I had no time to extract Stub from the trap, the trap was too big for me to pry open alone... He had to be left behind”

“I know you are aware that abandoning a fellow acquisitionist in the nest of the two-leggeds is against the highest code of rats. How do you explain yourself?”

“We were caught off-guard. The two-leggeds had a clue that we had been there, or else there would’ve been no trap placed.” The Council members nodded in agreement. Loz continued “Now that the two-leggeds are aware of our presence they will be setting more traps, they will be actively pursuing our mischief. We are in danger.”

The room stayed quiet. 

The council exchanged looks and whispers amongst themselves. Loz sat quietly hiding the nervous mind between his ears. He glanced at Cyta who was absorbed in listening and staring at the ground. 

Once again the High Master spoke.

“We, the High Council, are the founders of this nest. We suffered many losses and sacrifices to establish ourselves here. Do you remember the journey here Loz?” Loz, caught off-guard with the question, stuttered “No, I don’t High Master. I couldn’t, I was born here.”. “Loz, we as the High Council must unveil our secret to you now. The time has come where the nest needs a new home. A new leader.” Loz, absolutely perplexed, stared at the high master blankly. “What do you mean High Master?” quipped Cyta from the edge of the room. She instantly sunk back into herself as she knew interjecting to the High Council was highly frowned upon. The High Master shot a glance her way and Cyta sank further into herself. The High Master continued “Loz, you came here on the back of your mother as a little hairless baby, while your eyes were still shut.” Loz’s expression had not changed, he remained helplessly flummoxed. “Your mother sacrificed herself for you. We were not far into our journey. We were new to the world. Naive. The journey lasted several days as you know, and on the third day we suffered many losses, including your mother.” Loz, now flabbergasted and in disbelief, soaked up the tale as if he were young again.

“We were crossing a small stream, which usually would pose no issue, but we had decided to cross at dawn. Small blazes of light punctured the horizon and our veil of shadows was drawn away. A shadow passed us over, our gaze turned to the sky as a hawk could be seen making a sharp turn towards our mischief. We were caught severely off-guard, half of us were in the water and the other half shouting to hurry as we darted to cover. Your mother was swimming, she had nearly made it to shore before she threw you to the bank and turned back…” The High Master’s gaze trailed off, as the memory replayed in his mind. “She swam to the middle of the stream and began to splash and shout, snatching the hawk's attention. The sound of the diving hawk’s feathers grew louder as it locked its gaze upon your mother. She turned to me, knowing that it would be her last breath, and said “Keep him safe.”. There was a splash...and she was gone. The hawk flew off, your mother in it’s clutch. Because of your mother’s sacrifice, the rest of us were able to safely cross and continue the journey here.” The High Master finished his story, Loz sat stunned as he tried to process all the emotion welling within him. 

“I...I..I don’t understand” Loz stammered “Why would you hide the truth from me? Why didn’t you tell me about my mother?” His voice grew as an anger welled within him. “I thought she died at birth, I thought I killed her…” His voice trailed off, a medley of sadness, confusion and betrayal arose in his heart. 

To Be Wild

A slate-gray sky filtered out the autumn sun, the frigid breeze off the lake wisped around our skin, telling of the coming winter. We stood among the boulders and stones submerged in the wild river, observing. 

The river forged its path through the forest, along the steep banks and rock outcrops that resisted a millennia of urging. It had created a masterpiece, chiseling out a place that had held on to its wild character. 

A couple of canoes pass us as they head downstream.

Steep northern banks grew crowded shrubbery which foretell of the cold creeping along, infringing on the area. Yellows, oranges and reds weave within the base of the aspen stand, scarred white boles stand tall and straight, wearing the rustling leaves as golden canopies. 

Changing foliage is only half of the story, for a river always has two banks. Contradictory to the north bank, is the coniferous and needled south shore. Cedar, spruce and douglas-fir have grown into a dense shady grove lacking the light received on the opposite bank. Smells of tannins, rotting logs, damp moss waft in the chilled wind, creating a scent which leaves one feeling alive, wild and free. 

Catching fish between the showy banks.

To look down stream is to see the ideal picturesque river cutting through two types of vegetated banks, tall conifers occasionally bowing over the water, and white riffles converge into fishing holes one can only dream of. 

Shadows crossed the river bottom, oscillating in the current. Their source is as red as any color in the natural world, the soon-to-spawn sockeye salmon. Heads and tails a rich olive green, united by a body that is as red as the blood within your veins. Soon these well-travelled salmon, after swimming several hundred miles to this body of water, will spawn, die, and leave only a genetic map for their young to follow. 

We trod along the faintly beaten path, crossing patches of sand and mud. The stories told from footprints tell of a busy shore, not of fishermen, but of varying creatures. Bear prints are familiar tracks I recognize, but several other toed creatures have scampered along this communal trail as well. 

Solange gives a quieted shout to grab my attention over the slight rapids “Tyler, Look! There’s a beaver!”. My gaze wanders around the waters between her and I, but I see no beaver, only partially submerged rocks. I soon realized that a rock had eyes looking right at me. I glanced over the beaver initially because I thought it would be shy, rather than three meters away and still swimming towards me! As quietly as it appeared, Canada’s largest rodent submerged and swam a rods length away from me under the glassy water. 

Dusk was approaching, highlighting the golden aspen tops on the adjacent bank. It was time to go. Returning to the communal trail we trudged up stream, over fallen trees and danced across narrow ledges above the water. 

Now sporting our sweats and sweaters we drove to a nearby lake in search of a campsite. The forestry road carried on and on, through private holdings in the provincial park and fire scars that crested the horizon. Our transportation had all of the sudden metamorphosed into a North American safari. A black bear stood up from the roadside shrubs leaving five meters between our wheeled encapsulated box and itself. Turning a corner we spooked a lynx from the gravel and into the bush, when we inched toward where we had seen the large cat, it remained just off the road, crouched down and stalking some unfortunate critter. We sat for a few minutes watching the rarely seen creature as it would alternate between a stalked crouch or a sit on its haunches. One look back at us and it methodically sauntered into the thicket of devil's club. 

The Lynx Idles. Photo taken from the road, hence the lovely pink ribbon and stake.

Waves lapped the lake shore being pushed by an evening breeze. The moon was full, occasionally shrouded with clouds and slowly rising above the mountain silhouettes. We were warm in our sleeping bags and homemade fleece liners, discussing the day's events and the events that would follow tomorrow. We had decided to call it a night, roll over and get some sleep. As if the scent of our comforts had drifted away and into the meddling minds of canines, a wolf howled into the lonesome night. “Did you hear that?!” I whispered. “Yeah” Solange replied. Our silence was punctuated by another howl, whether a response to the first or repetition of the first, I am unsure, but at that moment we felt as if we were in a truly wild place. 

Full moon rising on Borel Lake, BC.

Once Wild

A special moment to be on the Columbia

We were adrift on the waters of the Columbia, summer’s end nearing like the next bend, slowly coming into sight.  I was attune to the river’s inherent wildness. I took note of the seasonal changes to occur, as, with any wild river, low water subsequent to the high. 

I had a profound realization. In nearly 28 years of life, growing up downstream, I had, not once, seen the Columbia fluctuate in flow. Surely you have, you just never noticed! Well, most likely yes, but never in accordance with the seasons. The Columbia where I grew up changed when the dams decided it was time for a change, by the human hand. For the first time, I witnessed the seasonal fluctuation of the Columbia River. I thought it to be...Remarkable.

Noticing bends in the river, swaying around large gravel bars, and the waterways which we used to explore. It was all different. No longer could we paddle down the overgrown and narrow channel, sure to be stopped by a log jam. Reeds and grasses which we would gently skim over now stood two meters overhead. Wildlife, particularly beavers, escorted us downriver, tail slapping and creating sprays welcoming us to their home (Beavers definitely do not do this, but it’s a nice thought). The Columbia, for once, felt wild. 

September 2nd, snow lingers in the alpine. The exposed bank displaying the water level fluctuation.

Sat face to face, tethered bow to bow and stern to stern, we floated the lazy Columbia. A salad containing assortments of fruits and vegetables was served as dinner, complemented by a small charcuterie. Washing down the exquisite cuisine was none other than “Alexander Keith’s: the original craft beer”, as I believe it is called. 

Is there a finer way to experience such a unique area, passing through without a trace or trail, enjoying the company of friends both new and old? The recognition of wilderness leaves me noticing that I had never thought of the Columbia as wild. I am thankful to experience the sleepy untamed waterway. It is not far, perhaps a day's float, where the wild Columbia succumbs to the works of man, a wild river is tamed, a reservoir born, and the songs of motorboats replace that of the birds.