Northwind

Leif awakens to find a bird eating from his cook pot. The bird snatches the fish’s head and flies to the top of a tree, only to drop its prize before flying away. Leif desires to stay longer and continue rebuilding his strength, but the smell of his cooking will draw in the bears, so he packs up and leaves. When he looks back, two black bears are already scavenging his campsite.

Feeling at one with his paddle and the canoe, Leif moves swiftly through the water. For a moment, he leaves behind the pain of his loss and is present, at one with himself and his thoughts. Then the grief returns, and Leif considers his destination. He remembers Old Carl’s words to go north, but he isn’t certain of where his journey should end: “[N]orth was a direction, not a place” (82). In time with his paddle, Leif begins to chant a song about the north wind that blows into eternity.

A pod of orcas surrounds Leif’s canoe, and in the same way he remembers from his sick days, the whales nudge his canoe as if they are playing with it. Entranced by their beautiful markings, Leif feels drawn to follow the whales as they instinctively swim into a shallow inlet filled with small, smooth stones. The whales glide back and forth over the stones in what Leif can only guess is a cleaning ritual. The adult whales go first to teach the younger orcas the process. Leif’s canoe is close enough that one of the adult whales is within reach. His internal monologue reveals his frustration with how the primal urge to touch the whale conflicts with his knowledge that he shouldn’t interfere with nature. His urge wins, and he lightly touches the fin as he and the whale make eye contact. The whale appears undisturbed by his touch, and Leif senses a moment of connection: “an open knowing had passed between them” (94). Noting a small scar on the fin, as the whales swim away, Leif knows he will always remember this whale and the connection they shared.

Inspired by the swift movement of the whale pod, Leif resumes paddling north. However, the wind is too strong, forcing him to take shelter in an inlet until the conditions improve. Now hungry, Leif uses his spear to fish right from the canoe, as the water is teeming with salmon. While he searches for an island away from the hungry bears where he can cook his fish, he sees that the orca pod has returned. Their movements are no longer playful, though, and Leif realizes they are also there to hunt the salmon. Leif watches in amazement as the orcas work in tandem with each other to “herd” the salmon into one area by blowing air bubbles into the water. The hunt churns the water so violently that Leif fears it will capsize the canoe. Above him, eagles and ravens circle opportunistically, waiting to snatch up any fish parts left behind. Leif notes the cunning nature of the ravens, who often outsmart the majestic eagles for the best bits. A raven lands on the canoe and tries to steal Leif’s salmon, but he bats it away with the paddle. The chaotic feeding frenzy leaves Leif astounded at the lengths creatures will go to abate their hunger. He vows not to become like an animal in his search for sustenance, instead “to see and be more than just what [he] shove[s] in [his] stomach” (108).

Leif finds an island where he sets up camp for several days. He gathers wood, starts a fire, and builds a smoker for the fish. As fog rolls in and rain starts to fall, Leif creates a shelter with the upturned canoe. He cooks one fish, eats it quickly, and forages for blackberries. With a full belly, Leif falls asleep in his canoe shelter and dreams of Little Carl and the faceless image of his mother. He awakens to find ravens circling his smoker. He shouts and throws rocks at the birds, but they remain. He marvels at their determination and listens to their garbled calls, wondering what they are communicating to one another.

It is still raining, and Leif’s wet clothes remind him of working the ships, where he was never dry. Working on the ships was brutal, filthy labor, and he received regular beatings when he made mistakes. Leif considers that his life now isn’t without its dangers, but he is thankful for his autonomy. He enjoys that, much like the animals, he alone is responsible for his survival. After fishing and eating again, feeling blissfully free and content, Leif desires to commemorate the moment. He considers composing a chant but longs for something more permanent. Lacking the tools to carve stone, Leif resolves to carve his story into wood.

Leif settles into a rhythm. He paddles when the current is favorable, and when it isn’t, he goes ashore and waits for the current to shift. While he waits, he works on his carving and fishes to replenish his supply. Though not fully recovered from his illness, Leif grows stronger daily. He marvels at his growing capacity to survive: Recovery to this extent “was something he at first thought would be impossible yet now found himself doing with more and more purpose and force” (125). Birds of all types constantly surround Leif’s canoe waiting to steal his dried salmon. The ravens are particularly bold in their attempts. Smaller birds join the throngs of ravens and eagles waiting to scavenge small scraps. The orcas are there too, and Leif wonders what compels them to move north. Content with the pace of his life, Leif sleeps deeply.