Curiosity Past Fear

High elevation wetland assessments and the longest stretch I have had off work in a long time

The last few days have been deliciously slow. I write this from the couch where I have sprawled, the soft caress of warm air from the ceiling vents on my skin, our one-eyed cat perched on top of me, squeezed between my laptop and my torso, so that I must slouch back into the couch to make room. The days have been slow not because I have forced them to be, but because I have let them.

I worked three 12 hours days at the beginning of the week, and on the third day came down with a cold. I worked anyway, driving kilometers of logging roads through the forests of southern interior BC seeking out wetlands. A predictive model built with LiDAR and other data had chosen locations that were likely to be wetlands, and our goal was to assess as many of these locations as possible to determine if the model had predicted wetlands correctly.

On the third day, we assessed a marginal site in a high elevation forest. The ground was a moss bed in a room with willow and spruce walls. I sat on the green cushions, trying to identify the species of moss and writing a list of plants. We dug a soil pit, running our fingers through ancient silt and cold loam, comparing warm chocolate brown earth to grey mottled soil. If we touched it enough, maybe it would tell us it’s history, maybe it would let us know how long it was soaked in water this year and in years past.

As we sat discussing the archaic grit and fine glacial flour we’d exhumed onto the bright green spongy floor, a small mob of chickadees spotted us as they traveled through the willows and alders of the midstory. They chattered to each other, their two or three consecutive “dee” calls in a row warning one another of potential danger on the ground. Yet their curiosity was stronger than their fear, as is the common condition of the chickadee. They drew closer, hopping from twig to twig, investigating us from all sides, sometimes hanging upside down. We held still, and they hopped around us only an arm’s length away. They then reached a consensus that our presence was acceptable, and their warning calls ceased in unison. Small peeps bounced occasionally between them as they moved on through the autumn sparse alders.

I lay back on the moss, my head spinning and my body exhausted from the virus it was fighting. I could have stayed there forever and just become part of the forest. I could watch the moss cover my body incrementally, season after season. I could watch the saplings grow into trees, the ephemeral water rise and sink back into the ground with the relative speed of the tides.

I spent the next couple of days sleeping, reading, and baking bread. I made art with my partner and walked my dog, spent time with friends and played with cats. It was full of activities and my schedule remained somewhat full, but I released the need to stick to a timeline. I reminded myself with great difficulty to prioritize presence and health over productivity.

There are days that I catch glimpses of the woman I am becoming. I see her through the forest ahead of me. I see her under the water, so near the surface, beckoning me deeper. More often lately, I catch up to her. She takes my hand and shows me around my new life. She shows me what I am building, just around the next corner, already there and waiting for me. On quiet days, I hear her singing in the shower, or in the kitchen. On lucky weekends, she has time to make three loaves of sourdough for her loved ones.

Before each step I take closer to her, I hesitate. I look back at all I have done to get here, and I am struck by all I have changed and left behind. The direction I am headed is uncertain. But each time I make a choice to move in the direction that feels right and true, I feel more aligned, more centered. I chase the chickadees through the forest, following curiosity past my fear.