Читать книгу Sarah/Sara - Jacob Marperger Paul - Страница 9

July 21

I see amazing things and I see nothing to talk about. I saw a herd of musk-oxen today. I understand that they’re actually a kind of primeval goat. Whales are also a type of goat. Speaking of which, I’m really surprised that I haven’t seen whales. I thought I saw blowhole spray in the distance the other day, but it was nothing. In fact, in many ways this trip is tame and it worries me that I am running from Jerusalem. That I do have whole days to meditate, to reflect, that I am not consumed by the trip my father planned is not ideal. The whole idea was to face concrete fears in an environment where I could grapple with them and win. Plus, it leaves too much time for thought.

It makes me lax at times, the seeming casual nature of rowing peaceably through this eerie, unending autumn late-afternoon, because that is what the July here is: an autumn late afternoon, all the time. The light has a red quality to it from passing through so much of the earth’s atmosphere and casts long strong warm shadows. The foothills reaching out to the tundra are like high desert, rived by occasional violent water into deeply creased folds of land stretching out like roots or fingers, a combination of dirt and green. On their north, seeming flat absorbs them, and the flat is split by rivers only noticeable at their outlets. Because the flat is deep tundra, it hides the river banks in its expanse, disappearing them the way tall grasses do a meadow stream. To the foothills’ south, great grey mountains rise straight up to snow covered tops. And in fact the flat isn’t nearly so flat as it seems, but its expanse is so broad and unbroken that my mind averages its rolling nature into a perpetual plane.

I don’t want to stay up as late as I did last night. I said that I would wake up half an hour earlier and I only woke up twenty-five minutes earlier, which I would count as close enough except that I was so sluggish that it took me nearly twice as long as usual to break down my tent, cook breakfast, pack everything back into the boat and cast off.

I was in such a rush that I almost set sail without the pontoons. No, Abba, I wasn’t so foolish as to almost forget them. Instead, I looked at the wind’s constancy, at the water’s pacific ease, and almost chose to risk it. I know, no risks when you’re going solo. Risk tolerance is zero. But losing time is also a risk, and I’d promised myself to make up what I’d lost. The half hour earlier start was supposed to translate into a half hour earlier arrival. At best I made fift—

—Later—

I feel like I have to write this or I won’t be able to sleep. I was writing before and I saw a grizzly on a tuft about forty feet from my camp. I spoke loudly and calmly, but he didn’t move. I know, don’t run. But pack up your stuff really fast. I got the tent down faster than I ever have. He was huge. He turned his head and looked at me with one eye. And I did the same cause I know that’s a sign of non-aggression—but you try believing that when an animal the size of a cow, but with teeth and claws and a bit less ground-clearance paces the distance across Broadway away from you. I couldn’t leave stuff behind, but I just shoved it all together into the boat, never taking my eyes off the bear. It took me about five minutes to get my stuff down and in. During that time, he completed a slow semicircle around my campsite. I kept speaking, trying to keep my voice level. Hey, bear. How you doing, bear? Just packing my stuff up here, going to put it in the boat. I don’t know why I didn’t say Shemah. I think I usually would’ve said Shemah. It’s what you’re supposed to say in danger, that or tehillim, but tehillim are really more prophylactic, meant to be said in advance of danger. Often, you say them to protect someone else. If you think you might die, Shemah is the ticket. It’s a bit like a Catholic’s last confession. I got the stuff in the boat and pushed it down the short embankment. Baruch Hashem the boat was beached fairly close to the water line! When I got close to the water, I was pretty much running, and he began loping towards me, not running, certainly not charging, but nonetheless heading towards me, downhill, his mouth hung open. I was in the water and I swung my feet into the boat and started paddling and then it was all over, a grizzly won’t catch a paddler. His water skills don’t touch the polar bear’s. Why is danger always a he?

It isn’t going to be easy to sleep. I keep shouting things out, little warnings, words. I want any bears that might be around to know that I’m here too, that this is my territory, back off. It won’t be easy to sleep but I have to. And besides, it’ll be safer inside the tent, right.