Somehow magically enclosed in the Super Natural Forest is a vast and, at times, formidable landscape. Massive basalt promontories, and as if a hand could sweep over the Canadian shield, openings for towering pines, abundant, as are all the serpentine rivers with plenty of wendigo to go around, that flow into and back out again of a seemingly endless number of lakes. We stare out over a frozen river’s mouth. Silence, as much as you care to ingest.
Whipped snow, sculpted no less in places, stiff whipped peaks, forming frosted ridges, your eyes glide over them like your mind is figure skating, without moving a booted foot. Moose tracks, several traveling together, came from the northern shore, walked through several feet of snow depth, exiting into the southern shore. We wonder how recent, but we won’t follow.
We kick a hole in the snow, start our small fire, we roast brats, the smoke wisps aloft into a cloudless sky, and today, no wind. Flames from the fire toast my fingertips. Pine pops, sparks erupt up out of the coals. We snuff ‘em with snow. Lunch, unfortunately, has become, well, I guess it’s time to start heading back, and as much as my body does that very thing, I’m mentally kinda dragging my thoughts out along with. They’re having trouble leaving, and with days like today, I can certainly see why.
