Zen and the Art of Axmanship

My headlamp exposes the grievous wound my ax was making in the tree. Night had fallen hours ago yet rest eluded me. I had made the mistake of taking a lazy day, lounging around the Alaskan cabin rather than working on my writing projects as planned. The ruthless slave driver within me wouldn’t let that slide, though.

So I’d laid down with the intent to sleep (maybe a whole night - bonus!) but the inner sadist cracked the whip and I’d thrown on my pack and stepped out into the dark night. Clouds scudded the sky, blotting out most of the moon’s ambient light. I trekked up my old childhood trapline for 8 miles (the midpoint of that line) and decided it was a perfect place for a shelter.

In the winters as a teen, I construct temporary shelters called Harlton Haciendas along my traplines so that if I needed to, I could stop and spend a night in relative comfort. These shelters are essentially a tarp covering a wooden structure with a raised evergreen bough bed. They are large enough to build a fire within their confines - perfect for a place where the night time temperatures can dip as low as -45F/-43C. At 16, I stayed in one about 50 miles from my home when the temperatures fell below -62F/-52C (shattering the little thermometer I had clipped to my pack).

Snuck, Snuck

The ax bit deep into the wood, sending wood chips flying. There is something magical about an ax. The ability to transform your body’s kinetic energy into a useful motion to build things; the ability to hit precisely where you aim every time. One stroke at a downward angle, the next a bit flatter to pop a neat little wedge out of the cut. Over and over again. First one side, then the other, until finally, magically, the tree surrenders and falls to the earth.

As the dead fir toppled to the ground, I reflected on how its purpose had changed. Once, its purpose had been to keep the soil in place, taking over for the grasses and hedge brush that had laid claim to the thin layer of soil in a harsh climate. As it grew, the needles fell, adding to the pile of dander from the brush as it died, the sun blotted out by the rapidly growing fir.

Add a few years and the soil layer accumulates a bit more and more each year. Eventually, twenty or thirty or more years pass, and the soil is ready to host the next level of maturity. Already I could see the birch and aspens growing nearby that signaled the approach of the next phase of the ecosystem.

If I could have stood there for the remainder of my life, say 40 or 50 years (if I was lucky), I would have seen the gradual demise of the evergreens, and the flourishing of birches and aspens. If, by some miracle of life, I was able to stay in this spot for, say several centuries or so, I might witness the birth of the mighty oaks and maples, signaling a return of the kings of the forest and the apex of forest soil maturity. Then at some point in the future, fire or human development would eradicate these giants, and once more the maturity cycle would begin anew. Assuming, of course, that climate change allows this process to take place.

Such thoughts worked their way into how our lives work. We are born and grow fast, like grasses and brushes. Then, somewhere around our teenage years, we grow and mature at a slightly slower rate. Yet the growth and maturity are still present. Then at some point around 30, we reach that next level where our growth is internal. Finally, somewhere in our 40s or 50s, maybe we reach that final plateau.

The thought is a sobering one, for one of my age. Does this mean I am as mature and have as much knowledge now as I will when I am 80? I hope not. For a lifelong learner, there is little that is more frightening than stagnation. Perhaps that is why I continually push my boundaries, begging to find that point where my life perpetually hangs in the balance. If we stagnate, we die a little each day. I'd much rather go out with a bang than a whimper.

I brushed the thought aside an instant later. I dropped the fir trunk into place in the blossoming shelter. For now, it is enough to be alive and out here in the wilds, doing what I want to do. We only have today, tomorrow is never promised to any of us. And today (or rather tonight), I have a shelter to build. One that might keep me from hitting that dead zone another day.

Who knows? Maybe I will be out here, doing these same things, when I am 80 or 90.