Amis Pour La Vie

Autumn is the season of my most vivid dreams. I'd always assumed it was because October is my birthday month. But this year the dreams haven't shown themselves. I awaken with bits and pieces but not with that revelation-pay-attention energy.  I've been waiting. A girlfriend commented that perhaps it's because I'm living my dreams. That comment didn't resonate until recently. She wasn't far off the mark.

Far as I can tell, movement of the waking dream-kind began on my morning walk two days ago, when I was submersed in the smells and electric energy of a perfect fall day.  Born in October, I pondered ... I hope I die in October, too. It was one of those moments when the veil between worlds was sheer; when I was 100-per cent certain that spirit puts me where I need to be. It was the beginning of a chain of signs and omens.

Wood Tick and I walked several miles into the forest yesterday, to the confluence of two small creeks. We saw no one, as our tracks melded with elk, bear, wolf and deer. Light waned on the return, as my eye caught a shiny edge in the mud. I stopped, dug with my finger and pulled out an oblong silver charm engraved with the words, "Amis pour la vie."  I was stunned. How could it be that I looked down at the exact moment and noticed a tiny corner of silver? It reminded me of when I had attempted to stick an eagle feather into the bark of an old growth ponderosa pine several years ago and hit something hard. Encased deep in the bark was a quartz crystal about two inches in length. Miracle energies. 

The following morning I woke in the dark and made my way to the beaver ponds a few yards upstream from the house. Their dam was a work of art, but I had yet to see the ghost-contractors. I sat on the chilly  ground and heard an elk bugle. The loooooooong call of sex. With rifle hunting season two days away it might have been a hunter practicing and checking the proximity of game. But no, this call was strong and clear with a hint of forlorn; unlike those from the lips of hunters. Another call, as waves appeared on the glassy water and a small beaver swam into view.

I mentioned the beaver and bugle to Wood Tick. Ya, probably a hunter he surmised, as I smiled. I headed out on my daily walk with the dogs. A bald eagle flew low overhead. Shortly into the walk Teak balked, as she picked up a scent that made her uncomfortable. Instead of my usual loop I dropped into a marshy creek side with a faint two track next to a lake called Banana. I'd gone about twenty yards when I heard loud  splashing in the creek. Too loud to be the dogs. I hurried to find a window through the thickets. My eyes fell upon three frisky cow elk. As they stepped out of view, in stepped a stately six-point bull to complete an unbelievable scene. Bull and harem stepping upstream, using the river as their pathway. It was mid-day, when no one expects to see them. I placed my hand over my heart; muttered prayers for their safety as I urged them towards the sanctity of a steep mountain gorge before the bullets would fly.

I climbed a steep bank from the riverbed to the gravel road, light-footing it through a rain of lemon yellow cottonwood leaves. Two ravens dipped and glided above, calling back and forth. My friend was right: my life is a waking dream, immersed in nature's sanctuary of the extraordinary. Blessed be, on the cusp of 61. "Friends for life."