The woods calmed him, and offered a pleasing display of maple, aspen, hemlock, and white pine. The silence honed his thoughts. Things were not pulling at him from all sides, and he was focused on the task at hand, slipping into a meditative state. His children meant the world to him, Susan too. They had their arguments, but so what. Everyone does. But while he loved his family like ferns love the rain, he needed time to himself. He figured this was something he inherited from his father, who was part gypsy wanderer, part interstate trucker. He hoped they’d never take this personally. This need, this natural craving was something deep inside him, something genetic he couldn’t control. Besides, when he returned home he was a new man, a better person for them and for himself.

Colored leaves crunched under his boots as a ruffed grouse drummed its wings to the east. The slow beats crescendoed into a pounding rhythm. This commotion had a way of attracting many predators, and John often wondered how grouse survived. They were under attack on all fronts, the chicken of the Northwoods. If it wasn’t goshawks or owls, it was coyote, fisher, bobcat, and pine marten. They were the woods drummer, perhaps playing a song for his arrival. Hard to beat that.

Whispering water caught his ears through the trees on his left. The good, fast-running, clean kind. Ah the Black, he thought. He headed towards the sound and after a hundred yards the forest gave way to a slate cliff that plunged into a deep pool. If he tried going down that way, he’d break a leg, or his neck. He watched the swirling water and wondered what it would be like to slip and fall into the frigid pool. John lit another smoke, relishing the sights and sounds of the Black. The rushing water and unique cuts and grooves of slate reminded him of things from a long time ago—things before he was born. One might call it an undefined spirituality. Whatever it was, it felt like home. Why, he could not say. No one had all the answers. Not even Big John.

He gazed upon the canyon like a shepherd to his flock. In the foam below the falls a coho salmon jumped, its top black and slick, its sides a silvery flash. He drew from his cigarette, admiring the waterway.

John moved upriver, attempting to find a way down. The canyon would not give way. He needed to work back into the forest and find the two-track that followed this side of the Black.