Three days. Three long days in these dank and foggy woods, I have to admit, my quarry has proven quite the clever and elusive adversary. However, today will be the day. I hike up my backpack as I trudge over a small rock formation. Once over the ridge, I search the ground for signs of my oh so evasive opponent. Bits of bone or skin cast aside from a late night meal, perhaps a dropping or, if I would be so lucky, a feather. I know that I am within his domain, that much is clear. Wandering around this section of forest for several days, I am running low on food and water. I need to find him today, or I may never get the chance again.
Constantly scanning the branches above and the ground below for evidence, my perceptiveness dulls with the fatigue of boredom. I feel my left foot hit something hard and I am sent tumbling over. I accidently roll off the edge of an incline and find myself being dashed against fallen branches and stones along the way. Eventually the world stops spinning and I recollect my thoughts. At the bottom now, I check myself over to assess the damage. I can still move all my limbs, and my ribs are intact. While looking over my body for signs of damage, I notice I have a nasty gash on my right arm. I take off my backpack and get out my first aid supplies. As I kneel down I come to realize that I also have quite a few nasty bruises. I clean my wound, wincing at the sting of the antiseptic. I bandage it up with fresh gauze and bundle up my belongings to continue my search. Today is the day. I will find you. Only a few meters from where I landed, I see it: a small ball of skin on the ground. I quickly scan the trees and ground for any sign of him. Nothing.
I continue on my way, battered and bruised, knowing that I am in no condition to continue searching, and yet, I do. The search is what I live for. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be boxed in, locked away within walls of concrete and steel. And so, I continue to seek. I continue to venture out to the hidden places of the world in hopes to find the ending of things. They’re funny, endings. Most people find them sad. I find the thing that really is sad is the story that never ends. I am an artist. I hunt the endings of stories, so that they will never be forgotten. It is an art that is both difficult and dangerous, as that little fall would attest to. I still find it to be extremely rewarding. I get to see things that I know will likely not be seen by those generations who happen to begin after the end that I so carefully sought out.
The sun is beginning to hang low on the horizon; I must find him before nightfall. There must be another sign. Anything; right now I would take anything I could get, even… a dropping! A walk over to it: it’s still fresh. I scan the trees above me. A walk around to try to see the top most branches at an angle. Wait. Could it be? I think it is! I walk over to an adjacent tree, and get my climbing gear out. I put on my climbing harness and loop my rope through it. I then tie the rope to the tree with a friction hitch knot, and then back to my harness. This simple set up will allow me to climb the tree while self-belaying. I double check all the lines and insure that everything is secured, and begin to make my ascent.
Carefully finding hand holds and foot holds, I begin to work my way up the tree. Every couple of meters I adjust the friction hitch, sliding it upwards as I ascend. I have to be careful to make sure there is enough slack to catch me. Slowly, carefully, I make my way up. I feel the rush of pain withy every movement I make, my bruised limbs screaming at me to stop. I don’t. This is what I live for, this is what I do. This is who I am. One movement after another, each of my muscles working in tandem to pull me ever closer to my goal, even as the sweat on my brow begins to blow away as the evening breeze dances through the trees, I force myself to continue forward. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and check my surroundings. It’s almost nightfall. I need to make it up high enough so that I have a clear view of the branch I saw him on. I have to climb only a few more meters until I can capture my prize and return to share the spoils of this venture. Hand over hand, foot over foot, carefully checking the texture and grooves of the tree’s bark so I do not lose any progress I have made. I continue to slide up my friction hitch, the lifeline that insures that today will not mark my own ending. That day will come, but not today.
I stop to check my altitude again, and at long last, I am high enough. I adjust my line and climb downwards. One I have lessened the slack enough; I let myself dangle from the rope. I reach into my pouch and carefully take out my delicate instrument, the most important tool of my art. The sun is just about to set. I ready my instrument, bringing the scope to my eyes, and take aim. Just as I thought, he is sitting on a branch in the tree adjacent. I ready my camera, and as the Northern Spotted Owl takes flight at nightfall, I capture it.