The Logging Road
The Logging Road
Knock, knock, knock catches my ear!
Faint at first, and then it grows
Into a woodland beat of highs and lows.
There, up on a snag (a widowmaker, the loggers say),
A feast of bugs is to be had by the hungry.
I see the red-tufted head with eyes aglare
And black-feathered body, with oversized feet
Clasped to the tree; that is the pileated woodpecker
Hammering away with its bill for something to eat.
And now my senses are awoken,
And from my position on this old logging road,
I scan the tree line for movement
That will draw my attention so as to reveal unseen animals.
Swish! Suddenly, tail in the air; a vixen dashes out inf front of me
With a snowshoe hare gripped between her teeth.
She looks about and then scampers away into the underbrush.
My keen eye picks up the white of a tail as it settles down:
A doe browsing on cedar boughs lying broken on the ground.
Surely, the fawn must be nearby, watching its mother’s every move,
Its instincts attuned to learn in life’s continual struggle.
The thing that displease me the most are the ticks,
And my heart goes out to the animals that suffer this.
Their ravenous bite and insatiable appetite for blood makes me quiver.
God only knows what purpose they serve.
And now I take stock of the road, contemplating the history!
The ruts reveal days gone by when horses pulled the heavy loads
And men used crosscut saws to fell the trees,
To be replaced by mechanical chainsaws, a modern invention,
And skidders with tires wrapped in chains for traction,
Equipped with winches and chokers to drag the logs.
And this too has changed in time with the advent of the feller buncher
And clear-cutting practices and scarification that leaves the land devastated.
Man, in his plans, attempts reforestation with the aid of chemicals,
Making the area inhospitable for the animals to live in,
Or another brilliant idea: to burn the wasted materials unwanted by him
But vital to the forest for habitat renewal.
Money is the overriding factor that governs the management,
And so selective trees, namely softwoods, are planted.
The delicious growth of poplar, so vital to moose and deer as fodder,
Are brush-cut away to make room for the conifers.
And I am penitent about man’s inconsideration for others.
A garter snake slithers past my foot, oblivious to my presence—
As if I pose a danger—in hot pursuit of a field mouse scurrying away.
But a whiskey jack draws near, singing for a handout.
On a nearby stump, with pinecone fragments strewn about,
Perches a squirrel chattering at me for invading its territory.
Above, a V-shaped pattern of geese circles lower, and I am amazed
By how they maintain this formation at night and in stormy weather.
Those were happy days when my dad and I
Walked the old cuts to pick field mushrooms in the fall.
And he’d teach me the difference between
The edible ones and their poisonous fungal cousins.
“It’s the gills and the ring,” he’d say, “and not slimy on top!”
In spring, we’d search the birch groves for morels (a delectable meal),
And he’d show me how to differentiate the false from the real.
In summer, there were multitudes of blueberries everywhere,
And he’d tell me to always be on the lookout for bears!
And when I saw a partridge, I remember asking,
“Dad, how did that bird get from Hungary to here when it can barely fly?”
He chuckled, and the memory sank deep: how warm it felt in his presence.
The poor thing, I thought, and still to this day, so harmless;
Born with one sole purpose in life: to be food for everything else,
And I said to Dad, “What was God thinking?”
The seasons came and went; my dad grew old,
And I became an adult; and today, on this logging road,
Sucking the crisp, cold air deep into my lungs,
My tongue utters words of praise while my mind paints the canvas
Of the route the road takes through the cut and its surroundings.
Smack! Breaks the silence. A beaver, surprised by my appearance,
Dives for safety in the swamp of his making,
Deep enough to store tender branches to prevent them from freezing.
Home to turtles, frogs, and salamanders.
As I walk further down the old logging road,
Leery not to stumble or get bogged down in the mire,
A glint attracts my eye—and it’s a tag on a corner post,
Put there by a prospector who staked the mineral rights.
And looking more closely, one can follow the lines
Establishing the claims’ perimeter by cairns and pickets,
As they traverse the topography through the alder thickets.
Fresh scat! Still steaming, the hairs on my neck stand upright!
Wolves recently passed this way,
Following the scent trail of a moose as revealed by the prints.
I sense the carnivores nearby; they see me, but I don’t see them—
Unlike the swarms of mosquitoes and black flies,
Attracted by body heat, that feast on every uncovered part of me.
I reflect on these modern times we live in compared to primitive life
And inquire, “Have we really advanced far? Or is it just our egos?
Satisfying our greedy righteousness to justify our abuses.”
I look at myself—what I once was and what I have become.
Then I look to my Maker in remorse and ask the question,
“Why was I born?” Or do I defy spirituality and the creation
Of human beings and rely on science and biology to explain
And accept the evolution of Homo-sapiens: a creature evolved
From primates that swung from the trees,
Without hope, without meaning, walking on two legs,
Returning to nothingness, as if a parasite on the planet.
Everything is pleasurable; there is no response, just quiet,
And it occurs to me in the disappearing light: I need to turn around
And go home quickly before dark sets in and the road
Becomes indistinguishable, making it difficult to navigate.
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