Looking Back

This excerpt appears in a section on my lifelong connection with nature:
In later years, in the western Arctic, we were exposed to a vastly different landscape, the boreal forest. Here we lived on the edge of Wood Buffalo National Park. It was, as the name suggests, “…a home where the buffalo roam.” where it was not at all unusual to encounter these massive creatures either grazing in the ditches, or worse, on the road itself forcing us to to stop until they saw fit to allow us to pass...

The second most abundant large mammal to frequent the boreal forests was the black bear. In one spring and early summer alone, I had ten sightings...The only time I felt nervous about a bear encounter was on a weekend camping trip with a troup of cubs. I’d risen early in the morning to step otside the cabin to see what the new day had to offer. As I stood at the water’s edge taking in the morning air I sensed a movement behind me and turned around to see a large black bear standing tall on its hind legs about 20 metres away its head bobbing as it sniffed the air. At that exact second the door to the cabin opened a one of the cubs stepped out and yelled to me. Not wanting to spook the bear who was eyeing me by this time, I used slow very deliberate hand gestures to signal to him to turn around and go back into the cabin, which he did. At the sound of the door closing the bear dropped to all fours, did an about face and disappeared into the bush. For the rest of the weekend we just encouraged the kids to be as noisy as they liked as we explored the surrounding area. No more bears were seen. 

Also in the woods adjoining our back yard was a groomed cross country ski trail. Consequently, my first choice of recreational transportation of the eastern Arctic, the snowmobile, was replaced by a pair of cross country skis, wooden of course - none of those wax-less, plastic-coated impersonators for me. If I was going to take up skiing then I wanted to do it right which included learning the fine arts of tarring and waxing...

...my most memorable skis were those taken during a full moon and one in particular will forever be indelibly imprinted on my memory. Mere words can never do it justice but I will recount it here as best I can.

The night in question was ideal for a moonlight ski, not the slightest hint of a cloud, northern lights dancing across the sky, the air crisp and clean and icy cold, the already snow-covered ground blanketed with a fresh dusting of snow...

After a half hour of silently gliding amongst the frozen shadows, I unexpectantly found myself thrust into the most breathtakingly beautiful scene. I can still recall, with amazing clarity, the sight of the meadow awash in the light of a full moon, stars mirrored, sequin-like, on the snowy blanket stretched out before my eyes, forced to squint against the bedazzling brilliance of it all while high above the brilliant moon and countless stars, hung there, inert, illuminating the scene. My toque-enveloped ears sensitive to the intense silence broken only occasionally by the muffled echo of the rapids far below borne upward by the frozen mist off the still open water. The frigid air prickling at the exposed skin on my face, biting at my nostrils, every out-breath, a plume of frozen condensation on the still motionless air as I stood, enraptured, as much a part of this setting as the the trees at my side, the only witnesses and sole companions poised there along the margins of this magical scene. 

...The memory of the experience haunted me for days afterward and still, when brought to mind, brings back that feeling of wonder and awe which visit each of us from time to time. It was by no means the first or only experience of its kind but it was certainly the one with the most impact. In fact, it helped me to understand both past and later experiences of a similar nature and has been incorporated into my understanding of Buddhism. 

Our moments of inspiration are not lost though we have no particular poem to show for them; for those experiences have left an indelible impression, and we are ever and anon reminded of them.

Thoreau