This poem is part of my current project, documenting protected lands in the United States at risk of losing their safeguards or significant acreage. The Smith River (Kaa-nvsh in Tolowa, the language of the Tolowa Dee-ni' Nation), in the northwest corner of California, is part of the National Wild and Scenic Rivers System. The Smith River National Recreation Area is part of the Six Rivers National Forest. The river flows through the national forest, Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, and Redwood National Park until it reaches the Pacific Ocean. The Smith River is the only major river system in California without a dam. It is often cited as the wildest and cleanest river outside of Alaska.•
On the drive, I quietly note the fire scars
where flames ripped through the canyon.
I have learned to speak quietly about burns,
to not tempt the sparks of spiteful gods.
At the visitor center, a forest ranger shows
a mountain lion on her home’s security camera,
talks of bears eating rotten meat left out
after fire evacuation.
I think, The riverbed must have dried immediately,
the animals must have been trapped and terrified.
I oscillate between shudder and marvel,
lay mental offerings wherever I can.
We walk to the Middle Fork,
Western starflower, Pacific rhododendron,
yellowleaf iris, ferrous land softened with pine needles.
I am grateful for the insects circling my face.
Further on, serpentinite and peridotite rise tall.
I learn the clearest waters reflect blue light.
I am struck first by the pure turquoise,
then by a lifetime of settling for mud.
We wind our way to a grove of titans.
Primeval redwoods, so tall, taller than second growths at home,
I want to go back in time, show my friend’s daughter
how they hold entire worlds, how they can indeed reach the moon.
Later, a dinner companion will recount his friends in Chile
who had lain splayed on rocks, tempting condors closer.
I will recall looking into the clear, unsure of the depth.
I will understand the need for risk, for sacrifice,
to be close to something majestic, to swim in the holy.
This poem appears in Issue 35 of Alta Journal.
SUBSCRIBE
Heather Bourbeau’s award-winning poetry is part of the Special Collections at University College Dublin’s James Joyce Library. Bourbeau has worked with various United Nations agencies and is a winter wildlife docent at Point Reyes National Seashore. Her latest poetry collection, Monarch, examines overlooked histories of the Western United States.
