Listening to the Call
September 2005
Viki Mather
Viki Mather
Each summer I try to get out for a few days on a solo canoe trip. I pack up my little canoe with everything I need to travel, eat, and sleep. I am self-contained, self-sufficient, and alone in the wilderness.
On the second day of my solo trip this summer, I was paddling along the shoreline, exploring, breathing in the fine summer air, relaxing with every stroke. The simplicity of life in the canoe is very appealing. I felt I could stay there forever.
As I paddled along the northern shore of the lake on the second day, I looked deeply into the forest. It changed every few hundred metres – from birch to alder, to maple and pines. A ridge rose up, supporting a beautiful red pine forest. There was little undergrowth there, so I could see far up the hill. I felt the call of the forest, and parked the canoe so I could walk within it.
I secured the canoe on a sloping bedrock shore. Then I stepped into the softest ever carpet of pine needles. Most of the trees I walked under were red pines. There were a few white pines, some small red maples, and maybe a white birch or two. I wandered along the ridge, parallel to the lake. It had a very nice feel.
Halfway along the ridge, a white pine fell many years ago. Perhaps about 80 years old, it had been tall and straight. Likely, it had been taller than its red pine neighbours at the time it blew over. It had been growing on a little sloped bedrock rise, so it didn't have much soil to secure the roots on the upper side. A strong wind 10 or 15 years ago pulled it away from the rock, and it fell to the ground. But it didn't die.
It now lies horizontally, with the trunk suspended half a metre off the ground. The thick roots that had grown on the lower slope are deep and healthy. They are able to sustain the life of the tree.
What should have been branches high in the canopy, are now branches low to the ground. They have taken on a new shape, rising sideways to the trunk as they turn their needles to the light from above.
Often when a healthy tree falls in the forest, the branches on the upper side of the trunk will change their shape as each tries to become a new, straight, tall tree. The branches on this white pine didn't do that. They all transformed themselves into the classical lower branches of the white pine. They were long and sweeping. Even the little branches at the very tip of the tree did not try to turn into an upright tree. They also became long and feathery.
This tree had a lesson for me. I stayed nearby for a while to listen to it. I can't say for sure that I completely understand, but I'll try to explain what I learned.
A great tragedy had befallen this tree. Had it remained standing, it would have grown taller and stronger. In another hundred years or two, it would have become a magnificent grandmother of the forest.
When it fell, it might have just given up and died. Or it may have become misshapen as each of its branches tried to become a new tree. Instead, it accepted the tragedy of the fall with grace. It turned its branches to the sun, and reached out in beauty.
In my life, I see this as a message to let go of the struggle. To accept the events that befall me, and work on making what I have to work with into a life of beauty.
Viki Mather 
Each summer I try to get out for a few days on a solo canoe trip. I pack up my little canoe with everything I need to travel, eat, and sleep. I am self-contained, self-sufficient, and alone in the wilderness.
On the second day of my solo trip this summer, I was paddling along the shoreline, exploring, breathing in the fine summer air, relaxing with every stroke. The simplicity of life in the canoe is very appealing. I felt I could stay there forever.
As I paddled along the northern shore of the lake on the second day, I looked deeply into the forest. It changed every few hundred metres – from birch to alder, to maple and pines. A ridge rose up, supporting a beautiful red pine forest. There was little undergrowth there, so I could see far up the hill. I felt the call of the forest, and parked the canoe so I could walk within it.
I secured the canoe on a sloping bedrock shore. Then I stepped into the softest ever carpet of pine needles. Most of the trees I walked under were red pines. There were a few white pines, some small red maples, and maybe a white birch or two. I wandered along the ridge, parallel to the lake. It had a very nice feel.
Halfway along the ridge, a white pine fell many years ago. Perhaps about 80 years old, it had been tall and straight. Likely, it had been taller than its red pine neighbours at the time it blew over. It had been growing on a little sloped bedrock rise, so it didn't have much soil to secure the roots on the upper side. A strong wind 10 or 15 years ago pulled it away from the rock, and it fell to the ground. But it didn't die.
It now lies horizontally, with the trunk suspended half a metre off the ground. The thick roots that had grown on the lower slope are deep and healthy. They are able to sustain the life of the tree.
What should have been branches high in the canopy, are now branches low to the ground. They have taken on a new shape, rising sideways to the trunk as they turn their needles to the light from above.
Often when a healthy tree falls in the forest, the branches on the upper side of the trunk will change their shape as each tries to become a new, straight, tall tree. The branches on this white pine didn't do that. They all transformed themselves into the classical lower branches of the white pine. They were long and sweeping. Even the little branches at the very tip of the tree did not try to turn into an upright tree. They also became long and feathery.
This tree had a lesson for me. I stayed nearby for a while to listen to it. I can't say for sure that I completely understand, but I'll try to explain what I learned.
A great tragedy had befallen this tree. Had it remained standing, it would have grown taller and stronger. In another hundred years or two, it would have become a magnificent grandmother of the forest.
When it fell, it might have just given up and died. Or it may have become misshapen as each of its branches tried to become a new tree. Instead, it accepted the tragedy of the fall with grace. It turned its branches to the sun, and reached out in beauty.
In my life, I see this as a message to let go of the struggle. To accept the events that befall me, and work on making what I have to work with into a life of beauty.
Viki Mather is owner of Kukagami Lodge, a northern Ontario wilderness resort at the southern boundary of the Temagami forest. Visit www.kukagamilodge.com, and e-mail kukagami@sympatico.ca. Viki has lived in the wilderness for 25 years, without electricity or running water. Read these columns monthly to discover wonderful ways to live in harmony with nature, bring edible wilds into your kitchen, thrive without plugging into the grid, and enjoy a healthier life.