Tempted by the Hidden People

I follow the railroad bed that is somewhere below in the depths next to the original path of the brook that has become this quiet cove.  The sky is well gray with a light pleasant wind that one moment carries the cool of the water I am paddling on, and then for a few seconds it is a warm humid marshmallow.  The faintest of sprinkles occasionally drift out of the sky coming as invisible specks of wet.

I spot three Turkey Vultures on the shoreline under an overhang of tree branches.  They are picking at some small dead thing, probably a fish.  One spooks and starts to fly, desperate not to get its feet wet.  It thinks twice about it and settles a few feet from where it started.

I cross the main stem of the river to follow the submerged rail line down to a point where it wraps around and follows the shore north.  Somewhere below are the remains of a 400 ft train trestle.

An adult Bald Eagle drops from its perch in a snag, feet extended, a controlled glide toward a fish in the water.  The fish evades and the Eagle aborts the attack with just a few inches to go.

A half mile down is a man fishing from a rowboat.  When he is a quarter mile away he becomes a drifting deadfall tree.  He finally becomes what he is, a man fishing from a kayak.  I have crossed to the far side of the river so that neither one of us needs to acknowledge the other.

I find myself wishing for a narrow river surrounded by the big forests that are on either side.  If the Farmington ran through woods like these I would spend most of my time there.  Unfortunately, it is bounded by narrow strips of trees with golf courses, farms or towns almost hidden from view, but not hidden from effect.

I guide myself close to shore to peer into the dark forest.  Deadfall branches reach out, the disguised fingers and arms of the forest spirits, they have forever drawn men deeper and deeper into the world that the hidden people inhabit.  It is good to know they are there.

On my return I here non rhythmic hammering on the far side of the river.  Sounds like a Pileated Woodpecker.  I listen a few times and it still sounds like a Woodpecker.  I paddle the hundred yards across.  As I near I can tell that the hammering is on the near slope.  I spot one on the ground, only seeing the just enough black and white in the right proportions.  A second one flushes from a few feet up a tree, a little red with the black and white, but a quick flash of the spread wings.  It's an unmistakable wing shape, perfectly adapted for flying though forests and flaring to land on the side of a tree.  They move a short distance back.  I turn and paddle off.