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.
