WHITE BIRCH by Kathryn DesRoches
Kathryn DesRoches pulled her car to the side of the red road and sat for a moment to unwind. She had come to this spot since childhood, either accompanying her father, sisters, brothers or in later years she would bring her close friends or come alone. It never failed to rejuvenate her. This, her favourite spot, was a little harbor nestled along the north shore of Prince Edward Island, Canada. It was called Savage Harbor because of the fierce battles fought along its shores by the French and English when Canada was young. The blood-red colour of the sand along the shore line seemed to bear testament to these combats.
Contrary to its name, she found it peaceful, relaxing and frequently stated it was the only place she could truly breathe. There were seldom others along its mile or so of shore line but in recent years cottages have sprung up along its far bank and “Lots for Sale” signs dotted the opposite side of the road from where she had parked. The realization that the days of blessed isolation walking these shores were numbered brought regret. She heard the playful voices of children drift across the expanse of calm water to accent her point. But she was determined to enjoy it as long as it remained a balm to her spirit and she could push this knowledge to the back of her mind.
She wound up the car windows, jammed a baseball cap on her head to shield her eyes from the bright sun, scooped up her camera from the seat beside her and emerged into the light. She was enveloped in the almost liquid flow over her senses. This place had a unique feel to it. The smell of the ocean just beyond the neck of the harbor, the dance of sunlight on the face of the water and the myriad sounds of insects and birds seemed to enter her psyche from every angle. It was a sheltered harbor and even on days when the main shoreline was blustery it was always shielded here from the force of the gales.
Over the years she had taken roll after roll of film trying to capture the elusive spirit of this place but eventually realized it wasn’t possible to capture the mood in one photo because it was ever-changing. She had walked its shores in every season, every weather condition and every type of light. In doing so, came to the conclusion that it was like a living being. You couldn’t take a photo of someone and state, “This is John, full and complete”. This enlightenment encouraged her to separate some of her photos, enlarge them, frame them to display on her wall and title her “gallery” as The Many Moods of Savage Harbor.
Her father’s tales of MICMAC Indians inhabiting this area since time immortal and the occasional finding of an artifact such as an arrow head along with the large, faint circles of dark earth in a nearby plowed field were teepees once stood, gave the area a feeling of permanence.
She stood by the car to draw peace into her, then set out on the walk she had taken as a ritual as far back as she could remember. All the cares of the day, the hustle and bustle world of finance, worry and rushing fell away within a couple of minutes and she felt as one with nature. The sun warmed her skin and the gentle breeze seemed to whisper secrets of the past in her ear.
Occasionally stooping to examine an interesting rock or to stretch and breathe deeply, she hadn’t gone one hundred yards when a feeling of unease overcame her. There was something not quite right but she couldn’t pinpoint it. She looked around her, examining inch-by-inch the scene in front of her. She observed the bright red row boat that was pulled up and tied to an old, sand filled tire. She took in the sweep of the shore as it curved gently to the left where the water line came to within yards of the road and saw nothing out of order. Then she turned to the right and examined the red, sandstone dotted, beach and the delicate wild rose bushes that topped the clay bank mixed with wild grass, scrub brush and multi-coloured wild flowers. An eagle made slow circles high above her in the clear blue sky and it’s familiar high-pitched scream, as well as the sight of an ink-black crow perched in the branches of a massive oak were not the source of her unease. Everything seemed in place and normal.
Looking straight ahead the origin of her discomfort revealed itself to her. It was gone! She rushed to the spot where it once stood and fell to her knees to examine what remained of a large white birch. The long fingers of root and the very bottom portion of the trunk endured, the balance of the tree washed away by the tide. A feeling of shock seeped into her as she stared at the stump.
This birch, as much as anything, came to mean Savage Harbor to her. It had stood on the bank, near the shoreline, when she was a small child and she would scamper up the crumbling earth to hug its trunk in delight. Her father would tell of birch bark canoes and how its papery bark was excellent for starting a campfire. Then, as the bank eroded over the years, she was amazed and respectful of how it drove its roots into the earth, holding precariously onto the edge of the small cliff. Eventually, stretching its roots to allow it to remain at an odd angle while still holding on.
A very slow process had permitted the tree, over the decades, to arch out to form a U shape, roots into the side of the embankment and the tree forming a place to sit in the curve of the trunk partway up. Then over the years the bottom U was touching the shore while the roots reached six feet up the bank to where the earth broke away each spring.
In the last couple of years this grotesque, but somehow beautiful warrior no longer produced leaves and a crack had formed at the base of the trunk. It was only through sheer denial that she held the notion that it would always be here. Now that denial was torn from her.
“It’s too soon!” she wanted to cry out while the echoes of these words remained in her mind’s eye from a time long ago at her father’s bedside. As at that time, the grief would take time and life would never be quite the same. Although still beautiful, this spot was changed forever.
