My time in Seronga is spent in ways ironically reminiscent of the way I spent much of my childhood. I’m often in nature, the whether driving on roads that don’t quite exist in a car, a blazing new trails boat or on foot, stalking animals and watching sunrises and sunsets. I’m enjoying, or relearning to enjoy the serenity of the great outdoors.
I bounce along in a beat up pick up truck, the man next to me chain smoking and squinting into the horizon. Our eyes scan the edges of the undergrowth, watching for the elusive animals that might appear at any moment, my game spotting eyes developed from an early age for slightly different purposes, hunting to kill rather than just discovering an animal for the mere thrill of it.
The radio is on in the background, back then it relayed the WCCO livestock report, now the BBC reports the sad state of the word through the persistent static. Although he will sometimes tell a story from a time long before I was around, the words trailing out of his mouth with the smoke, eyes a bit glazed with the memory, mostly we are both silent. We exchange more in actual understanding through this nonverbal atmosphere than we ever could by talking; somehow the words to really express anything deeper elude us both.
When he’s not telling a story, he is often tersely instructing me, informing me of some random piece of nature trivia. I appear to intently absorb these facts, occasionally genuinely interested but usually my mind is elsewhere. I will, however, always be able to regurgitate these facts if the occasion arises, usually to someone who is shocked at my unexpected outdoor aptitude. I absorb this knowledge because the way in which he relates it to me makes it clear that it is important to him, and I want him to be pleased with me. His gruff and closed off nature ensure that I will never truly know if this is the case, and thus I will wait for this confirmation in vain, but I continue nonetheless.
We stop frequently as he gets out to investigate this or that, I remain in the truck, never quite knowing how long his investigation will last, or if I will have enough time to get out and pee. I always tread carefully, never knowing which particular question or action will cause him to sigh and shake his head in exasperation. I have learned that I understand him only insofar as to know how to deal with him, although on occasion he will surprise me by revealing a small part of himself that I suspected, but have never been able to confirm was there.
Occasionally he’ll wander further off, disappearing from view to discover the status of some seemingly obscure thing he’s been keeping track of, whether an animal has been where he expects it to have gone, if that certain plant has begun to bud or the state of the blooms. Back then he looked for signs of frost, here now he looks for signs of rain. Both of them effortlessly using knowledge gleaned from a lifetime outdoors to predict the weather, the season change, the animal migrations and plant growth that seem confounding and mysterious to those of us less inclined. Each of them can navigate the ever changing landscape and activities of their domain by a print, the freshness of scat, the level at which the bark is scraped off the trees, recreating the events of the night or week or month before.
I wait quietly, the elbow of my brown arm rested along the edge of the rolled down window of this truck, my fingers casually grazing the top rim of the door. It is the same now as it was then, although now I sit on the other side of the truck. The small child in me panics irrationally now as I did then that he will get lost, or hurt, attacked my some wild beast he is stalking, or harmed by someone stalking the same beast. I fear he will just leave and not come back. And I need him. I push these thoughts away, although sometimes they linger. I stare into the distance, slightly bored, my mind drifting while waiting to take the next mental note he dictates to me upon his return. They are both somewhat tortured souls, some of the reasons for which are apparent and others in which I imagine he will die without completely revealing to anyone outside of himself. He likes people and is incredibly gregarious in a crowd, but also craves his solitude, to the point he will chase me away to protect it.
Like the one before him, I know I will never come near completely understanding this one, but this bitter pill becomes easier to swallow every time. Because of a lifetime with the first, I am able to exist in the presence of the second. I am more able to appreciate the beauty of nature in a way I couldn’t quite grasp in my childhood, despite his spontaneous yet insistent lesson plans. I like to think he’d be proud of me if he could see me now, if he could look past himself. If it was me, for once, he took an interest in and tried to understand.
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