The smell of wet earth announced springtime in Southern Ontario. Not far from the shore of Lake Erie, there's a beautiful trail through the property of a native plant nursery and in late March through to April, a half hour leisurely walk will bring you through fields of prairie grass ringing with a chorus of frog and bird song, below the hushed canopy of majestic hemlock and maple trees and along the banks of a gurgling stream. It feels in the right moment like you're on stolen time.
I set out one day after work with an aim to wind down and seriously enjoy nature and invited River, the owner's 8-year-old son who immediately dropped his kid-size bow and arrow to join me and then ran and picked it back up when I told him I had seen some wild turkey roosting in the trees and that who knows what might happen.
We zig zagged our way towards the forest and river and I noted with relish that this is the first time I get to say the sentence I'm heading to the river with River though I bet he hears that all the time. I told him that my name in Chinese, Liang, means the brightness of the moon and he could maybe say I'm heading to the brightness of the moon with the brightness of the moon. Our attention turned to the sights, sounds and smells as we neared the water, looking for a trace of the turkeys that roost in the trees along the river's edge. We crossed the river on the boardwalk and I fabricated a turkey call to see if I could frighten them out, a loud Mexican-like "ARRRRRRRIIIIII." A startled group of deer across the river scattered and the sound of their hooves crashing through the bush incited us to set chase upon foot, up the other river bank and along the trail, leaves flying underfoot. I stopped running after a minute, knowing well that the fleet-footed deer would be far beyond the reach of our human slug-pace but River kept going. I watched as he continued with optimism, bow and arrow held outright, as if at any moment the deer might jump out from behind a tree and ambush us. He was sure that we were on the right course when he inspected an overturned leaf and a hoof print that I tried hard to imagine I could see as well. He took off again and I found my patience a little worn. I had come out here to seriously contemplate nature, not entertain my make believe. I knew that he knew that he was making stuff up, like a kid play-fighting pirates knows he's not really fighting pirates.
I followed River through the bush, listening with skeptical bemusement to his in situ story of one of the baby deer getting separated and lost at the waterhole over the hill. But as we continued, my impatience turned to amusement. We followed the tracks over the hills and through the mud as the baby deer was led astray by something wily and vaguely leprechaun-like. The skunk cabbage showed signs of deer grazing and my enthusiasm grew as we named ourselves founders and establishers of the Moon River Club, a club with the Mission Objective of relying solely on tracking animals for survival. Through the trees we went now with double the purpose as the baby deer was dismissed and the Club grew in scope, structure, and ambition.
The light grew dim in the forest as we turned around and headed back, making plans to build a forest shelter, a draw bridge and pioneer skunk cabbage recipes. We would make full use of our survival techniques, and be exclusive, allowing into our fort and planned soirees of storytelling only an approved member list of people with names pertaining to Moon or River and also special guests River's dad, brother and sister. We crossed back over the river in great sprits, tracking the footprints of a 25 year old young male and an 8 year old boy carrying a bow and arrow who seemed to have been hunting turkeys.
