Northern Nights

Woodcutting at its finest hour, the last one. I felt at this moment that Paul Bunyan had nothing on me, except his blue ox. A good month and a half out in the woods, mostly dreading having to freeze on the ride out, the search for trees in a feasible location for cutting but more importantly extracting. Dreading the magnitude of how much I was supposed to collect, not knowing how far I had come or how far I had to go.

Daily routines never cease to be adventures in some form or fashion. A ride through the forest to a meadow might kick up a few grazing moose. Along the trail just past the far eastern cabin would be a pair of eagles that would watch as I passed by. Often there were days I would be distracted and follow the tracks of a fox or hare, sometimes both. I had my spills on the ice, the crashes of my snow mobile and plenty of times it became lodged in between trees and bushes, sinking further down as I tried to free it. Many days I decided that my time could be better spent by the fire indoors, and prolonging the task seemed justified by whatever excuses I conjured up.

But now, the much anticipated end of mandatory woodcutting is over, and I rest. I know that I may go out a few more times, out of boredom or perhaps for fun. There are trees abound that call to be cut, and with every massive tree I see, the vision of how it would crash down cannot escape my thoughts. I have always been good at creating a mess, but never cared much for cleaning it up. Some trees have blown over in our great wind storms, and others that grew leaning heavily by some misfortune in their youth, beg to fall.

There are patches in the forest that are bare, and others that choke out light by density. I should like to think that I opened up a very small portion of these areas, allowing for new growth and perhaps those trees will be undisturbed for another hundred years or more.

Every action here is more than what it seems. Every thought has an impression that can freely traverse the mind to warp or enhance beliefs and opinions. Actions such as woodcutting bring out so much feeling deep within. I could only hope that all my thoughts when I leave this place, can be filled with the spirit and life they have now. Hope that my actions spring forth feelings that I now know they have the potential for.

One night a while back I wrote this from what I saw, and what I had seen in past times.

Northern Nights- 

Like pedals of a pond Lily, silky smooth and with a pureness of white, so is the snow that layers the forest, covering a multitude of barren colors.

Grey's and greens, browns of many shades are wrapped with this holy white.

The old diseased trees, rotted and forgotten with time, are strewn over the land and blanketed for a season, laying to rest their soreness in sight.

Young saplings are hidden away for nature to slowly unravel with the melting of a Spring sun.

A thousand stars shine bright, and a thousand times that many dust over the darkness of space, glistening off the waters, mirroring the relaxed gilded sword upon Orion's belt. He heroically shines his light, illuminating the fields of snow that blanket mountains from base to summit and challenging darkness to conceal his glory.

The mighty heavens with guarding constellations and stars that hang in the midst, circle Polaris, taking refuge in the West as the remaining flee from the all consuming sun rising in the East.

To be seen by the rays of its light, means the demise of their visual splendor.

As silent and dark as six feet under, nailed in a coffin, the black and motionless wilds of Alaska project strongly the feeling of brutal and unforgiving ways in this treacherous frozen land.

Flickering of planets and of the brightest stars imitate a gentle breeze that ripples the waters surface, distorting the clarity of the object yet leaving a small amount to the imagination.

A late invitation is the presence of a nocturnal glow, as the moon beams reflect off each facet of crystallized ice, creating lanterns that fill the air with our own twinkling of lights.

And to the passing of night, the treeline silhouette graphs a continual spiked rhythm on the dawns horizon, and the sun defeats all.

As for the peaceful world that remains hidden beneath the slumber of winter's wool coat, it awaits to blossom vibrant colors of life once lost. In a hurry to live and in a hurry to die, this land is preparing for another arctic wonderland.