Last night’s fire had turned to ashes. Pulling myself up from my prone position with the aid of a nearby sapling, I had hobbled back over to the lakeshore, like old men do after sitting too long.

I’d stood by the shore quietly, bidding farewell to the day. Another wolf call sent a thrill down my spine and suddenly I had the irrepressible urge to howl in answer to his plaintive cry. I threw back my head, cupped my hands around my mouth, and, inhaling deeply, howled to the heavens.

“A-r-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o,” I had wailed, over and over. “I’m here too! I exist! I’m part of this!”

The night swallowed my howls, but I had felt content—even a little giddy. Smiling to myself in satisfaction, I returned to douse the campfire, crawled into my tent, and slept ’til just before dawn broke.

Now, as I stand here on this misty Alaskan morning, I deeply breathe in the crisp, refreshing air. I no longer need to howl. Howling is for nighttime. Morning invites gentleness to usher in the new day. I bask in the surrounding tranquility, and reverentially tend to my morning duties, as if tiptoeing through a cathedral. I cook my breakfast in silence. I strike my tent in silence. I load my gear in silence.

Wading into the fog-shrouded water, I launch my canoe, and the rhythmic pull of my paddle deepens my morning trance.

Suddenly, an enormous slapping sound crashes through my reverie, followed by a prodigious spray of water. With this fierce warning to steer clear, a beaver has announced his presence on the lake.

I obey, giving him a wide berth. Gliding forward, I welcome another day canoeing the Kenai.

Copyright © Dick Anderson 2021