When the Perseids streak overhead, when the white mayfly hatch is manna to hungry trout and nighthawks, when the bonfires toast not only marshmallows but our chilly bodies, summer wanes. Like the warblers and thrushes winging south under a starry ceiling, my own thirst for travel becomes more desperate. I love movement, hate stagnation. New places, new things, new people, new experiences... a chance to wander and wonder.
It's late summer again. My truck is packed, canoe on top. I fold the hammock my sister and I shared last night. (Per usual, she had a bad spider dream and socked me in the face.) The Highlander, loaded with those I love, rolls away from the campsite where I still stand, shifting my own gears. My summer of indulgence is over; I've kissed my flings goodbye. The new bite in the morning air tastes like trepidation and change.
Trepidation (my quarter-tank of gas), change (where English existed before, a wall of noise now), and frustration. It's 0700, two days, many hills and rivers, and thankfully no moose collisions past Grayling. I stand barefoot and disheveled on the concrete at a Quebec City gas station. I can decipher some of the words on the screen, none of the words buzzing from the speaker above my head. "I can't speak French", I offer; another volley of French descends from the speaker in response. I retort with a few choice words in English, then some more in Palawano for good measure, and then leave, painfully aware of my quarter-tank.
I love and hate Quebec. Love its scenery and ample opportunity for feasting on the outdoors. Hate that I understand very little of the going-ons, hate that I can't comprehend (or speak). I gave myself a full day off to explore the province, but the language barrier rendered explorations intimidating. Could I winnow one last adventure from summer? I stopped at a tourist information center to find out. The to catch my eye was in English. More importantly, it informed me that there was a FJORD with BELUGA WHALES about two hours away.
I did some quick calculations. I had three hours of daylight left; the jaunt would add about four hours on to my already long journey. But, I applied my "cave to impulse" principle that's defined the summer, justifying my decision by the knowledge that I wouldn't be this close to beluga whales again for a long time.
So, I pushed the Dirty Dasher to her limit. We flew down the hills, toiled back up. I was on an adventure of a magnitude I hadn't planned on, driving too fast through beautiful mountains and river valleys. The Black Keys were screaming on the radio, the wind was in my hair, and as we crested another hill and dropped down into the valley, I had to megbansag -- a Palawano yell that's a means of releasing the joy inside your soul so you don't explode. In that moment, summer was touching again, and I felt orgasmically alive, unburdened from responsibility.
I rolled into a parking spot at Parc national du Fjord-du-Saguenay, with less than an hour of light to spare. I found the path leading me to Halte du Beluga. The sign informed me it was a 3km walk -- screw that; I made it a 3km run. As I chased down the trail, grasping at summer for a few more unbridled moments, desperation wore at me. "What if the tides are wrong?" "What if they're not here anymore?" "What if the time of year is not right?" As I reached the observation deck, I stopped short. In the fjord under me, the Belugas cavorted and sang and porpoised and I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. Until a few hours prior, I hadn't even known that Belugas were found this far south, and I dug everything element of the evening. I lingered in the sunset, surrounded by magnificent cliffs and Beluga Whale huffing... In that surreal moment, summer had been revived for a proper burial, a fitting bookend.
