The bird eats the berry
that grew on the branch
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Three books about canoeing in or near the Arctic have taken up residence in my “done” stack in the past few weeks, and when I add to those all the books about walking that I’ve consumed in the last several months, I can imagine the pace of my own life slowing to what I myself power: bike, boat, foot. And since I have no bike, and I cannot yet use my boat,1 that leaves meandering.
Anyone who knows me will say I rarely meander, that marching is more my style. And that’s okay. I can march. Nobody ever marched themself2 into a high-speed wreck, did they? Marching gets me to the grocery store in 20 minutes. I march downtown to the bank. I’ve marched over 600 miles in 2024 so far. You might argue this is not slowing down and I say but it is, because I’m not encased in metal and plastic and glass, flying so fast I cannot hear the crows yelling.
To be clear, I do not want to canoe the Arctic. I am not a canoeist and I lack survival skills necessary for such an adventure. I have begun to move into desert narratives now and I would require new skills for that unforgiving landscape as well. I suppose I’m an armchair adventurer, except that hiking and boating3 are in fact part of my regular life.
What I want is to slide into an intentional outdoor existence, one that challenges me to wrap up but go outside when it’s a little chillier than comfortable, one that shows me how to cool down in the sunbaked valley of a Montana August. The temperature isn’t the only wild fluctuation we in the north experience through our seasons. I’ve written before about how I love the dark and also how I fear the dark, and know I couldn’t live in a 12-hour light, 12-hour dark equator zone.
For several years I’ve written intentions in January, and then tracked how I fared throughout the year. This practice has yielded many improved habits, for something about declaring the intention gives it shape and heft, creates a commitment. I have many 2025 intentions in the making, and one relates to spending time outside. I already seek the outdoors a fair amount, but I want to be deliberate and thoughtful about the time I spend there. I want to be out-of-doors, not just to count minutes the way I’ve counted miles walked this year, but to reflect on the effects of those minutes, each one.
In the Swan Valley northeast of Missoula there is a forest service cabin I’ve enjoyed. It’s easy to reach, often available, and has heat other than a wood stove.4 It sits alongside a large birdwatching area with aspens and a wide meadow. I’ve stayed there just a couple of times but whenever I see it on the reservation site, it always beckons. Perhaps renting it for a weekend once per season would help serve my purpose: to attain a simpler existence, even for a couple of days.
The barrier between indoor and outdoor life will thin as I step onto the morning porch with a cup of coffee too scorching to drink, and ask myself what bird I hear as I wait for the liquid to cool. I’ll meander, yes, through the meadow, and strap binoculars to my body, though I rarely see the birds I can identify by sound. Evenings I’ll do as at home, reading until my eyes are too scratching dry to continue. I will devote attention, consider the way the bird eats the berry that grew on the branch that spread from the tree that sprouted from the seed that fell from its mother next door. Before departing, I’ll sweep out and pack up, and know that a slower means of making my way through the world awaits when I return: one where I hear owls calling, feel the heat of summer under my skin, melt into the stars of a black December night.
There’s a whole problem with wrangling my kayak onto the roof of my car by myself.
Themself wasn’t a word until I just typed it.
Once I figure out the transpo.
I love wood stoves but I haven’t mastered them. They worry me.