The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Epilogue

After heavy storms the forest seems to rise and stretch and shake like a dog waking from a nap. Branches of fir that sailed before the wind lie on the forest floor and arrange themselves in clusters. Cones continue to mature, and from the decaying clusters will eventually sprout new seedlings. No one knows how the branches manage this, but people of the forest know it is true.

And movement returns. The birds of winter, sparrows, of which there are more than twenty kinds, Oregon juncos, nuthatch, and chickadees emerge from sheltered spots where they have huddled against wind. They flit and putter about tops of giant trees where they pick seeds in the canopy. Sometimes a robin, who has failed to get the winter message, hops on the forest floor where there is movement of mice; while up and down the trunks of trees chipmunks whistle, chase, and chatter.

This, according to the poet, is / the forest primeval / the murmuring pines and the hemlocks / and this, according to forester and lumber magnate, is old growth timber in which resides owl, cougar, bear, deer, goat, wolverine, shrew, and in which, from time immemorial humans have dreamed dreams, some shabby, and some of beauty.

And, after a storm, a hound may trot through a splendor of smells, because wind and water bring breakage. New sights appear in old places. As Jubal Jim trots through the forest he pauses at the site of an ancient Indian village. Rain has flooded the slope, washed at roots of trees, tumbled shrubs and unearthed a variety of things.

Jubal Jim stops and sniffs a yellowing fragment. In this Pacific Northwest, through centuries, bone becomes soil but stone and ivory and teeth remain. This is a small tooth, certainly human, now cleaned by rain and yellowed by time. Jubal Jim makes water against a tree, moves on. There is something troubled in his gait, like a dog with arthritis, or a dog confused, or a dog unsure.

Like men and elephants, Jubal Jim is a creature of habit. He follows a familiar path. Where a tree has fallen he jumps over, stops to sniff among broken limbs or around torn roots. Insects are already about their business, burrowing, hiding, feeding in the rubble. Where the nests of mice or shrew are ripped away there remains a sense of departing warmth, though the nests, in fact, are cold.

Jubal Jim moves on, but with caution. At places along the path his belly lowers toward the ground. He crouches. Jubal Jim is brave, but tenuous in the face of change. He moves a bit more quickly as the roof of Sugar Bear’s shop appears among the trees. Windows in the shop are dark. Blown cedar tips cover the roof. Jubal Jim moves forward into Sugar Bear’s clearing, stops, momentarily confused.

The cliff, where in springtimes swallows were wont to dance, has disappeared. The cliff has become a slide, raw earth flowing beneath the sluicing force of rain. Where once stood a fairy-tale house, now lies a slope of mud and forest debris.

Crows fly above the clearing. A tree squirrel pokes its nose into the winter air, withdraws into its nest. The mud is nearly liquid, a field of mud above which not even a chimney shows.

Jubal Jim inches forward, sniffs, paws at the mud, and begins to dig. Liquid soil spatters behind him. The dug hole keeps closing as more mud flows in. Jubal Jim stops digging, Sniffs here, there, walks through mud. Gives voice.

The howl rises through the forest, deep, throaty, filled with sorrow, filled perhaps with anguish. The howl moves through trees toward the Canal. It is absorbed by forest and by the rush of water in a distant stream. Jubal Jim howls and howls.