Exile [matt]

The temperature had finally dropped, making the weather bearable for a new adventure. Taking advantage of the August day were two of my cousins, me, and a new friend. We took to our bikes and went exploring into a wooded area that we had never ventured into before. The forest was buzzing with the sounds of water running and trees rustling in a slight breeze. We found a bubbling spring mixing fresh water with decomposing Washington mud, where the rocks we threw disappeared as if into the center of the earth. We discovered a hidden rope swing that propelled us over a massive ravine, sending us to exhilarating heights. Deer darted through the trees and birds sang overhead while squirrels sprinted and leaped across branches. The woods were alive and gave us life. At the edge of our known world new discoveries seemed to be begging to show themselves. We crashed through the underbrush, yelling and laughing and feeling the sort of goodness that only comes when you are young. Towards the end of our ride, nearly out of the woods, we crossed a creek and stopped to explore. This was the most beautiful spot we had seen all day.

The creek was nearly large enough to call a river, but still quiet enough to feel more like the typical streams you find in the Washington woods. There was moss everywhere with interspersed ferns, Vine Maples, and saplings growing up wherever the larger Evergreens and Cottonwoods let the sun break through. We relaxed and played by the river and would have been on our way had we not suddenly seen an event that too few humans are allowed to witness. With no warning, seeming to come from the earth itself, a salmon nearly three feet in length came crashing through the water heading upstream. Half its body stuck out of the surface, always shining, absolutely glistening when the sun hit it. The racket that came from the stream silenced the birds around us and for a moment we were moving against time, watching something primordial, seeing an ancient ritual reenacted as if only for our benefit. It was a moment of peace, where the abundant generosity of God shines through and reminds you that the world is full of mystery and beauty if only you look. Unfortunately adolescent boys are seldom aware of mystery, grace, or anything else that hints at the boundless beauty of our Creator.

Two more salmon soon came crashing through the water and an idea entered four heads at once. We grabbed sticks and rocks and stationed ourselves at opposing sides and intervals of the creek. Another fish came by, thrashing through the water with little interest for the stones and noise and abuse being hurled its way. Two more came through and I managed to land a large hunk of granite onto the tail of the leader. A cheer resounded through the forest as it careened off path into a muddy pool to the side of the creek. Quickly we built a small wall around the area, leaving no exit for our quarry. It was trapped.

The pool in which the salmon had entered was no more than ten feet long and at most three feet wide. The water itself was never even six inches deep. Yet it had disappeared. Methodically we dropped rocks into the water’s edge, moving towards the center, occasionally slapping the water with a stick, working to draw out our prey. Nothing stirred. After twenty minutes we gave up and sat down. We had been outsmarted. It was time to throw in the towel. We began to discuss what our next adventure might be, where we should go, when seemingly out of nowhere our victim made a mad dash towards freedom. Its speed, strength, and determination were tremendous as it crashed through our dam without losing the smallest bit of momentum. It was on its way to freedom, gloriously fighting and splashing and thrashing and crashing into the larger body of water! But we were determined as well and in a mad rush four yelling boys entered the water and began wildly swinging sticks into the beautiful shining body of an animal once considered sacred. We swung uncontrollably, frantically, with bloodlust in our hearts and joyful hatred in our eyes. The thrill was exhilarating. I had never felt such single-minded determination. My heart pounded and my eyes glazed over with the pleasure and excitement of violence.

The thrill seemed to last forever. Our prey was elusive, tough, and continued to struggle as its body took blow after blow. We surrounded the ancient salmon in the middle of the stream, dropping rocks, slapping it with sticks, kicking and punching, even hurling insults. Even when it was obviously done trying we continued our assault. Finally it quit moving in any sort of natural way and let the water push it into the bank. It writhed and contorted its body, fighting for the past.

I will never forget the sight of my cousin struggling to pick up our prize. It was massive, well over three feet in length. Its face was stoic, its wisdom and moral superiority obvious. Gasping its last breaths, convulsing, the salmon remained awe-inspiring. There was no blood. Its body amazingly looked intact. But it was dying all the same. Nobody wanted to touch it. Mouths agape, we just stared. Finally, letting the awkward silence work as a funeral liturgy, we lowered our olden victim back into its watery home and watched it slowly float downstream. It rolled with the current, bounced off boulders, and disappeared towards the Pacific.

Four adolescent boys climbed onto their bicycles without a word, crossed over the creek and left the woods. They went back to the lives they knew before they entered the forest. And they never came back.