The
wilderness has been calling me again – the same way it has beckoned to me my
entire life - and I am going to answer the call, the same way I answered it
when I acknowledged that it was time to spend a summer in Alaska.
There
are many kinds of wilderness, I think.
Meeting Maria and spending so much time with her has been a wilderness
in itself – something that I have not done much of for the past twenty
years. I realize now how wonderful
it is to have a female companion in life to share in everything that can go on
in a day. What has happened these
past two months has been nothing like I had expected or imagined. I thought I would be spending the vast
majority of my time out in the real wilderness of outdoors Alaska – sleeping in
my boat in a quiet cove, in my tent on a quiet beach, up on a mountain meadow,
or simply in my camper. I also
expected that I would be making trips to town, buying supplies, moving around,
cooking meals, and spending a lot more time alone. I’ll never regret how this went, for I’ve enjoyed Maria and
her life immensely – her home, her friends and family, the guests, the dogs,
going to church, running errands together, fishing and hunting out of her
“basecamp”, the wildlife and scenery, numerous excursions out into the wild, and especially the wonderful feeling of
loving touch – which has been much more absent than present since my divorce
over 20 years ago.
But
as I said earlier, I feel the need for some time alone – just a little more of
what I was expecting. My heart is drawn to Humpy Creek, where
I can experience the sights and smells alone, and get back to my sense of
awareness and just being – instead of always trying and doing. After all, isn’t that what I always
tell my guys at teen challenge?
I
ride my “skiff” (that’s what they call my boat around here) across the
bay. It’s another beautiful, warm,
sunny day; it has been like this for about three weeks straight. Homerinians are amazed at the heat and
sunshine this summer, but they are complaining like we Minnesotans do when
we’ve been without the sun for too long. They want some clouds, rain, and
cooler temps. They want their lawn
to quit scorching. But as for
myself, I’m loving this. I make a
quick phone call to mom and dad – just to check in before I get out of range. I
haven’t talked to them in a week, which is longer than usual. Mom and dad’s good friend Marion Aulie
has died at the age of 91, and I ponder about what that must feel like to them
– to be flirting with old age themselves, and witness someone go before them
that has been a big part of their lives for so long. Just think: my mother fellowshipped with Marion every
Wednesday for over 40 years! Now that’s amazing.
I’ve
got a good tail wind, and it only takes me about 25 minutes to get where I am going
– the glacial spit out in front of humpy creek. This is a massive tidal flat, and I must moor my boat far
out in the bay so that it doesn’t beach.
I push Maria’s canoe out of my boat and into the water, and tie it to
the side of my skiff while I drop two anchors and prepare my backpack. A few minutes later, I am ready; I
turn, and swear under my breath.
The canoe has come untied and has drifted out of my reach. Now how does that happen? So it’s back up with the
anchor, motor over to get the canoe, re-anchor, throw everything into the canoe
including myself – who by now am all sweaty and irritated, and begin paddling
the 3/8 mile to shore – during which time I make a conscious decision to leave
my newly arrived foul mood with the boat and the bay.
Tim, just let it go….
This
is a state park consisting of tens of thousands of acres of ocean beach, tidal
flats, mountains, glaciers, and trails.
There are numerous people camped along the beach – but I’ve found that
they tend to hang out there, and don’t stray too far from “home.” It’s not long and I am moving up the
path to the humpy creek cabin.
It’s 7:30 pm, and I am a little anxious to get up to the cabin, get my
gear off, test the wind, and find an appropriate place to settle down to take
up the watch for a bear. But
again, I have to remind myself: “not so
much trying and doing Tim… just enjoy what’s happening this moment. If you get a bear, great. If not, that will be just fine too.” So I slow my pace. I watch carefully in the cottonwood
grove where Joey (Maria’s youngest son) and I saw the sow and cub black bears
three days ago. Here, I notice the
long, fluffy strands of cotton fluff.
Dirt, pine cones, seeds, needles, and other litter from the forest floor
clings to the cotton. I come upon
the head of a big chum salmon that wasn’t here last night when Maria and I left
– sign that a bear was here.
Farther ahead on the trail, I find a decent sized bear track in the mud,
and the entrails of another fish – covered with flies. “Better
that than me” I think to myself. The flies are crazy aound here, and it’s nice to have
them focused on something else…
It’s not long before I’ve wound my way
through the forest, over some deadfalls, and up the narrow path to the cabin. There’s a new bear pile or two along
the way – more evidence of the presence of bears – signs that weren’t here
yesterday.
At
the cabin, I drop my pack and fill my cargo pants with what I need for the
evening: some grapes and cherries, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece
of smoked salmon, and a chocolate granola bar. I also add my binoculars, some bug spray, a windicator
(nothing more than a small squeeze bottle full of baby powder), and a knife. With my gun slung over my shoulder, I
walk carefully down the rock face, and begin sneaking my way up the creek. I check the wind: there isn’t much, but
what there is is drifting up and away.
I continue. The bears have
a nicely worn trail on each side of the creek, but they tend to use the side
that has the least obstacles – so I do the same, crossing the creek from time
to time in my knee-high boots to take the path of least resistance. There is evidence of bears all around:
piles of scat, fish parts here and there, matted down grass, mud on sides of
the banks, and tracks in the mud and gravel at the creeks edge. I come to a small clearing across the
creek on the opposite bank – where the bear trail comes close to the creek, and
I know that if one follows it, I will be able to see it clearly from the other
side.
The
bank is about mid-thigh high, and I throw a leg up and crawl back into the
brush just a few yards back.
There, I find the perfect tree to lean against, a nice spot just wide
enough for my butt, and a root on each side so I can lean left and right when I
need to change position. I lay my
gun down beside me, along with some insect repellant, the windicator, and my
dinner. Now that I’m here, there’s
not much left to do but watch and wait.
I
think about how I have become involved in Maria’s life and business. An awareness comes to me that my mind
has been too busy with what needs to be done, and I reflect that people are
like that, aren’t they? The only
time some of our minds get a rest is when we sleep, and for some of us, that
doesn’t even happen. I recall a life
that has been sometimes filled with fear and anxiety, worry and dread, pain and
stress, work and responsibilities, and complicated relationships. It could be said that we spend 95
percent of our waking hours contemplating all of this; I’ve heard that said
before, but when is our mind ever really blank? When does it cease to function - and try and just be aware, just rest, just be? Not very much, I think, but it does
happen. A couple of times, Maria
has turned to me and asked, “what are you thinking?” And I have been able to turn to her and honestly say that my
mind was blank. She doesn’t
understand that, and I think it’s harder for a woman; I’ve heard that before
too. But I’ve got nothing to hide
from Maria. She’s the kind of
friend that I can say anything to, and I have.
My
mind feels pretty blank right now as I sit on this bank, tucked back into the
alders on humpy creek. I’m not
thinking about mowing the lawn, painting the door, trimming around the house,
doing the dishes or laundry, planning to smoke fish tomorrow, running the dogs,
blogging and checking emails, or the like. What I notice is what’s going on at this very moment. I’m aware of two sounds: the ringing
that is always present in my ears, and the water flowing down from the glaciers
high up in the mountains to my south.
I break it down. There is
the overall noise of the creek flowing, but there are individual sounds within
that: a sound that comes from where the water flows over the biggest rock that
protrudes a bit more than the others; the sound where the water comes up
against a rotten old log that acts as a barrier and impedes the water’s path –
so it changes it’s direction because it must
go down to the ocean. Somewhere
downstream, I hear a loud series of splashes. Salmon? Or a bear
chasing salmon? It matters
not, because I am staying here.
The
creek is loud, and I realize that this is a good thing. It will cover any movement and noise
that I make – so that a bear will not be as likely to detect me. But I also know that what goes around
comes around. I’ll have to be
diligent, because a bear can appear and disappear just as easily if I can’t
hear it. So I keep my eyes roving,
left and right – checking where I know the trails are, familiarizing myself
with what is there, so that when something different happens, I will know
it. I imagine the deep black color of a bears hide, and tuck that
away in the search image that is there in every predators mind. When my eyes cross that color again, I
will know it.
This is really nice.
Peaceful. I don’t know what time it is, because I
turned off my phone to conserve the battery. All I know is that I am feeling sleepy and relaxed. The sun is setting, and it’s rays come
sideways through the taller spruce, alder, cottonwood, and aspen trees that
line the creek edges. The creek is
in shadow now. Three logs have
fallen across the creek, and extend from one bank to the other. A red squirrel crosses one of the logs
– the only mammal I have seen in quite awhile. Then, a gull circles overhead, and from time to time, I hear
an eagle – with its trademark chirping.
Those are the only two birds I can hear. I shift to my right side – my favorite place to sleep. I’ve packed light, and only have on a
thin pair of camouflage cargo pants, with a light shirt and a hooded
sweatshirt. Now the evening chill
is coming, and I’m wishing I had another layer on. But it’s not too bad yet, and I begin to doze. Consciousness
is gone for who knows how long; seconds, maybe minutes. I open my eyes, still nothing. This is just way too comfortable. I nestle in a little bit more.
The
next time I open my eyes, I see the color black coming down the creek from left
to right, and it’s only 15 yards away.
I recognize it for what it is, a bear coming my way, and my heart is
immediately racing. Quickly, I sit
up and my gun is produced in my hands, as if it were an extension of me. How
many times have I done this?
It has become such a natural thing. In a second or two, the bear is on the log that is just
upstream from me, and he is crossing the creek to my side, where he will be
right in my lap. There is no time
to judge this bear, or even think.
My gun comes up, the crosshairs settle high on his shoulder, and the gun
bucks. There’s a huge splash, some
floundering in the water, and then I hear the moan of a dying bear, only eight
yards to my left and just below the bank and out of my line of sight. I’ve heard this sound a number of
times, and I’ll admit that it’s not a sound that I enjoy. Out here, alone in the woods like this
– it’s downright creepy, and as a shiver crosses my spine, goosebumps pop, and
the thought occurs to me to jump up and get the heck out of there. Just run – the way I did when I was 19
years- old and shot the big bear by Bock’s Gun Shop back near Brainerd,
Minnesota. But the mournful
bellowing only lasts a few seconds, and then it’s all over. Thank God…
I
slide down the muddy bank and wade over to see my bear. This isn’t the size of bear that I was
hoping for, but it was a great experience just the same. It’s always fun and satisfying when a
plan comes together, and this young boar will probably make for some good
eating too. He’s 150 pounds, give
or take – about like the one I faced off with at my truck two nights ago. Now, after the adrenaline surge, my
body is starting to calm, and I begin to feel cold and damp - as usually
happens late in the evening around here. The mosquitos are getting bad too – so
I slide the bear into the cool water.
This will cool the bear meat nicely while I go back to the cabin to rest
for a few hours and wait for daylight that will come again soon – as it always
does during summer in Alaska. Back
at the cabin, by candlelight, I read more of the book I’ve been enjoying by Gerald
May – before turning in. There is
the always present sound of the running water, and a few comforting creaks of
the old cabin roof – and this is what I eventually fall asleep listening to.
I’m
up early to skin the bear, take it’s skull, and the choice cuts of meat. I’m done hunting, but I carry my gun
anyway, just for insurance. There
are numerous salmon in the upper reaches of the creek this morning, much more
than there was last night. Night must bring good conditions for them to
move up from the pool down by the cabin? It’s a theory anyway. As I work on the bear with the knife
Paul Dorweiler made for me, I can hear groups of salmon splashing their way up
the creek right behind me. The
water is only a few inches deep in some places, and it takes some effort for them
to continue making their way up.
Other salmon are coming down the river – gliding effortlessly over the
rocks, and over, under, or around the logs that lay strewn across the creek. “Must
be on their way back down to the pool”, I think to myself. “Spooked
by a bear? Or just finished with what they were doing?” I’m finished, and I double-bag the bear
parts in large trash bags – then lift them into my backpack. I hoist it up, and begin the trek back
to the cabin; it’s not too heavy, but I can definitely feel it!
Back
at the cabin, I’m not feeling done yet.
I just don’t want to leave this place. Really, there are no responsibilities for today, is there? My mind is enjoying the break. My spirit is being renewed. Everything in me says, “STAY”. Without any more hesitation, I put the meat in the
shade, down by the creek, and tell myself that it will be fine. I climb the hill and look off the
cliff, and there are hundreds of salmon below me in the quiet pool. Several are in shallow water, with
their backs sticking out, and I wonder if I can catch one with my bare hands –
so I do, and it takes little effort.
A few of these salmon are getting close to death; their eyes are rotted
out, their senses are dulled, and there is little fight left in them. I enjoy this fish I caught bare-handed
- by photographing it in the early morning sunlight, and then I release it back
into the creek – where it swims in circles, confused at first, and then joins
the big pack of fish in the deepest part of the pool. Back up top, I take up the long piece of twine and snagging
hook that I left draped in the tree yesterday when I was here with Maria. I can’t resist. Just a few more fish.
I cast out the line, let it sink, pull it gently along the bottom of the
creek- until the line is resting over the top of an unsuspecting salmon’s back,
and then I jerk hard – and I have a big salmon on the line. With some effort, the salmon is pulled
through mid-air up the 20-foot vertical cliff, it’s body flopping against the
mossy rock cliff until it comes to rest on the precipice, at my feet– where I
can unhook it and toss it back into the pool. I have convinced myself that it is ok to do this; all of
these salmon are about to die, but before they do, they will eat their own
smolt and the smolt of other salmon species. They are better off dead. Besides, rotting salmon flesh can’t be that good to eat, can
it?
I
can feel a nap coming on, so it’s back up to the cabin, which is cool in the
shade. I cozy up under an old
sleeping bag, and drift off quickly.
I must have been really tired, because I don’t remember much about this
time. Only that I “checked out”
for about five hours, and awoke to a terrible smell. Craptastrophe!
“Sheesh, this hasn’t happened to
me in a long time, so why now?”
My appliance has come un-stuck from my stomach area, and my own feces
are all over me. Now I know I was sleeping hard, because this
rarely happens; I always seem to have an awareness of what is going on down
there – even when I’m asleep.
Most
of you take for granted the best things about having a colon – so here’s a
short biology lesson for you to consider.
Don’t pity me; just understand.
First, YOUR colon absorbs all of the remaining nutrients, moisture, and
acid (from your food) that the small intestine doesn’t get. Unlike me, YOU get to form a turd, and
YOU get to fart from time to time (yes, I miss farting and YOU would too). When a craptastrophe happens, the
victim gets a bath in a very acidic mixture of human waste that, if it isn’t
cleaned up immediately, will burn the skin, cause rashes, infections, and foliculitis.
For me, it was way beyond that point now.
Welcome to my life. Someday
I will write a humorous book about all of the crazy things that have happened
to me during my life (I even have a publisher interested already), but that’s
not going to be right now. It just
isn’t that funny yet…
I
was quickly up, rummaging through my backpack, and so, so grateful to find that
on a previous trip, I had packed the supplies that I needed to remedy the
situation. What a relief, because
I was thinking that I would have to hike back to the boat, which would have
meant more and more burning and discomfort. With supplies in hand, I dashed down the hill to the
creek with a roll of paper toweling from the cabin shelf - and began to bathe
in the cool water, cleaning myself from the waist up. I needed a bath, and the
water felt good over most of my body, but it stung like hell on my wound
site. And, it was then that I
realized that I had no bug dope on, and the flies and mosquitoes were eating me
alive! Believe it or not, the bugs
were worse than the other, so, as quickly as I could, I re-applied the new
appliance to wet, raw, and bleeding skin, and sensed fully the stinging and
burning on the site, along with the biting insects (those rotten, merciless
little bastards!), I quickly washed out the only clothing that I had along –
which I needed to put back on by the way.
Yuck. Then I sprinted back up the hill to the safety of the cabin, where
bugs were left to terrorize something else (probably my remains) while I
collected myself once again.
God – what did you have in
mind when you created mosquitos, black flies, and horse flies? Seriously, I
really want to know…
It’s
2:00 pm now, and I’m still not ready to leave. Things have settled down – so I take some more fruit, a
piece of salmon, a bottle of water, my gun, and my good book – down to the
lower flat where I can enjoy the shade, the spawning salmon, and some words of
wisdom from Mr. May. The author of
the book I’m reading is writing from the perspective of having cancer and being
in his late stage of life. He’s
recounting his most memorable times of being out in the wilderness, and
teaching me how to be more aware, feel, and just be – which is exactly what I
need to hear right now.
I
use my windicator to check the wind.
It’s coming up the creek from the ocean, and I’ll have a better chance
of seeing wildlife if I cross the river and let the wind take my scent away and
up the bluff behind me. That way I
can watch the grassy flat across me, and maybe I’ll see a bear, a moose, or who
knows what? The rock I sit on is
wet, but it’s the only thing around me where I can have any sort of visibility
– otherwise, my view would be too obstructed by the dense alder trees that
protrude off the bank and hang out over the creek. The creek is wider here – maybe 30 yards across, and it’s
flat and shallow, with a mix of gravel and mud; it’s a perfect spot for a bear
to go fishing.
The
salmon are everywhere, glistening in the sun, splashing, and carrying on with
their ritual. Gulls and eagles
soar overhead, waiting for the next death to occur, or for a few scraps to be
left by a bear. There’s a gentle
breeze coming up from the sea, using the creek bed as a wind-tunnel that keeps
me cool as I sit here in the shade.
The creek is much quieter here, because it is much wider, I think. My book is good. My butt is a little wet, but other than
that, I’m really happy. As I read,
I am always aware of the now almost constant sound of salmon splashing - but
there is another sound that I am filtering out. It’s like something rubbing, or something hitting something
else – only underwater. I watch
and I listen, but I just can’t place it.
I’m
sitting here on a rock in the river, and big salmon are swimming all around my
feet. I marvel at this, and my
mind wanders from what I am reading.
I have this deep sense of gratitude
happening right now. I am exactly
where I am supposed to be at this time.
Thank you God, for this.
For this feeling. For this
place. For this wonderful
playground you have made. I feel
You now, watching me, smiling down upon me - glad that I am enjoying your
awesome creation.
I’m
startled back to reality. A big
salmon has gone too shallow, and has beached himself. I’m tempted first to stone him, then, to help him back to
deeper water. I’m kind of weird
that way. But I linger, and watch,
just to see what he will do. He’s
right beside me, and as he struggles to free himself from the place he is
certain to perish, he splashes water all over me for several minutes – and I
allow it. Eventually, he makes it
back to deeper water, the splashing stops, and I can finish my chapter.
The
wind is coming up now, and for the first time in quite awhile, I have a
concern. My boat is moored far out
in the bay, and I have stayed longer than I expected. The tide is going out, and the thought occurs that I could
walk out and check on things. Not
that I could do much if it were gone, but at least I would know, and then I
could start making some phone calls.
So I start up the path. The
wind is in my face, which is always good.
Not only does it feel and smell good, but it lets me know that any
critter that is ahead of me will not be able to smell me. I pass a pile of bear crap that I have
seen now for five days, and I make a mental note of how it had changed from day
one to day’s three, four and five – from a pinkish red, to brown, and
eventually black (which is yet to come based on other old bear shit that I have
seen around here). Farther down
the creek, there are pink salmon, also called “humpies”, for which the creek is
named. Most salmon, as they spawn,
change color, and before dying, get very distinct humps on their backs. This is especially true for the pink
salmon. But these fish are still
pretty fresh. They are silvery
green with spots, and some are getting a slight hint of pink or red. I’m sure their flesh is still fine, and
I make a mental note to catch a half dozen to take home before I leave. My old buddy Gary will enjoy smoking
them when I bring them back to Minnesota.
Suddenly,
I hear voices, and realize that I am getting back to the camping area. So loud. So foreign. I
realize that I haven’t heard or said a word since I cursed under my breath
yesterday after losing control of the canoe. When is the last time
THAT happened???
There
is a bridge to my right, and a four-way trail directly in front of me. Two women and two men are coming across
the bridge. The women are talking
furiously, and they are in the lead.
The men are quiet, following.
I chuckle to myself. Why do women do that? Desperate for emotional connection and
intimacy? Desperate, or simply
desiring of?
And the men, following
quietly. Are they tuning out their
wives, or are they simply basking quietly in the beauty of this place? And then I think, “Quit
analyzing, Tim.” The women don’t want to see a bear. The men
do. It’s just that simple…
Haha…
It’s
no matter; I love people, but I don’t want my solitude interrupted… not yet, so
I hang back in the shadows, not wanting to talk. The noisy strangers come to the four-way, and continue on up
the trail toward the glacier. So different than me, I think. When I come to a four-way intersection,
I will take the one that parallels the creek or river over the glacier trail
every time. The foursome is past
now, jibber-jabbering about what happened yesterday, and what they are going to
do tomorrow. It makes me glad that
I have been living more in the moment on this day…
I’m
at the beach now, and after rounding the bend and clearing the grassy hump, I
lift my binoculars and can see my boat securely in place exactly where left
it. I’m not idle here for long
though. There are three other
boats, and I hear more voices, so I immediately turn and take the trail back up
toward the cabin. Along the way, I
spy three big male chum (dog) salmon in a hole right beside the bank. I pause to watch them, and I finally
realize what that sound was that I was hearing earlier. It’s the sound two male chum salmon
make when they fight . I watch as
a female comes into the nest, turns on her side, and deposits a few eggs. Two or three small dolly varden trout
swoop in and eat some of the eggs, but then the three big male chums are there
to chase them off. They stay in
the hole, moving upstream, and circling back around. I’m videoing this with my phone, and then the sound happens. One chum gets annoyed with the other,
and he head butts his adversary – biting and chomping as he goes. The sound is a combination of fish
flesh against fish flesh, with a little belly rubbing on gravel along with
it. It’s not a sound I’ve ever
heard before, which is why I didn’t recognize it earlier, but I won’t forget
about this sound now. When I hear it again, no doubt, I will be in
Alaska…
Back
at the cabin, I pull out my computer to settle in and write what you have just
read. I start first outside in the
sun, but it is too hot, and direct, so I move onto the bench in the shade. There, the flies are just too much, so
I strip off my damp clothes to dry on the porch rail, and I head into the cool
cabin to finish my journaling. My computer
battery is nearly dead now, so it’s time to close. It’s just been great – lying here tapping away for a couple
of hours, conveying what I have been sensing and what I have been feeling this
past 24 hours. In the background,
there has been a sound of wind in the leaves, water over rocks, and a few
creaks in the cabin roof. That’s all. I feel a deeper sense of awareness, of being
a part of what’s going on out here.
There’s been little contemplation about the past or future. Instead,
mostly, I’ve just experienced the now. What a nice break, and I make a mental
note that I must do this more often – wherever I happen to be…
What? Another nap? Wow…
I awake to find that it’s 6:00 pm
now. I’ll likely hang out for a
few more hours, doing whatever I want.
It might be fishing. It might be hiking. It might be animal watching, or
it might be another nap. I seem to
be really good at that lately. Whatever
it is, I will continue to feel calm and content – of this, I am sure.
How does one say goodbye to
a place like this? The thought occurs to me
that I may never see this place again, and then I’m surprised by tears – the
kind that just gush without any warning, and without a sound.
I’m still not ready…
This place represents so
much; a lifelong dream come true; meeting someone who I’ve come to love –someone that I must
now leave; perhaps the best summer of my life. I could go on and on, but somehow, this place has captured
and summed up for me the essence of this adventure – and now, I must leave it.
Suddenly,
I realize I’ve been letting my emotions build. You’ve been procrastinating having to deal with this, haven’t you,
Tim? Why else would the emotions
be so strong right now? But then, hasn’t it always been this way with me?
When
I feel, I feel strongly, and I feel deeply. And then I am emotional.
But if I felt more often, I
mean, really felt, daily – then would I be less emotional? Would that be
better?
I don’t know if this is something that I
can change – even if I wanted to, but perhaps it’s something to think about.
And
a prayer forms that springs from the depths…
This thing that I’m feeling…
let it not be fear-based. Let it be rooted in gratitude for what I have been so
blessed with. Let me just follow You, and trust in the path before me – that it
will be revealed as I go. Whatever
happens, I will be ok. Hasn’t it always been so? Thank you…
The
cabin is as I found it. It’s even better.
I lift the pack off the spare bed, and slip the straps over my
shoulders. On the porch, I take
one last look at the pools full of chum salmon, and the two forks of humpy
creek coming together as one - just uphill from the cabin. I breathe deeply of the evening air as
I latch the door, pause to admire this old cabin one last time, and then with
resignation, turn my face toward the path that leaves.
I’ll
take my time though. I’ll linger on the flat where the salmon spawn and splash
me – another of my favorite spots.
I’ll sit on the wet rock in the deep evening shadows, just in case a
bear or a moose comes out in the pre-darkness for a drink or a bite. There, the salmon will splash around my
feet again. I’ll be amongst fish, and bears – where I belong. I’ll enjoy it. I’ll just watch, and take it all
in. I’ll feel all of this again –
to the fullest extent. And then
quite abruptly, just like the tears appeared, I will know that it’s time, and I
will stand up and quietly leave. I’ll be ready…
