“What is now proved was once imagined.”
William Blake
Months ago, long before the trees had leaves, as I was dosing off one night, I got a call from a friend. Bingaman, he said, did you hear the news? TJ and I are different in many ways, and there was only one item of news from the day that I figured we would both be aware of. So they found the ivory-billed I said with confidence, they sure did was his reply. The ivory-billed woodpecker had been presumed to be extinct since 1935. Only now, after it was spotted and confirmed in the Big Woods of Arkansas, was it thought to be alive.
The draw of the bird is something that we both knew and understood. The last period of time that the bird’s habitat enjoyed widespread success predates photography. There are one or two decent photographs of the bird to date, and a wealth of elaborate illustrations. The red-crested black and white bird is the Holy Grail of the American South, and TJ and I agreed that we would have to soon go searching for the simple bird that has eluded so many, and mystified so few.
On Friday afternoon, after moaning over bad landscapes at the Lawrence Arts Center, as we waited for my brakes to be replaced, we tied my red canoe to the top of the Passport and left for the White River National Wildlife Refuge, a narrow strip of astoundingly fertile land situated between Little Rock and Memphis, just north of Greenville, Mississippi. Although our trip was short, the subtle moments of mystery and adventure that I encountered from our first mile east of Springfield afforded utter satisfaction.
Before we had even reached the refuge, I realized that TJ, too, was one of the beast creatures I would have the privledge to observe. By principle alone, I rarely accuse someone of packing too light, and yet TJ found a way to challenge such standards. He brought a toothbrush (to compliment my toothpaste, neither of which either of us ever used), a bowie knife, and the jean shorts he had on. The moment I noticed his singular denim choice, and combined this observation with the fact that this was a canoeing trip, in which we would both soon be soaked in sweat and river, I knew that my good friend’s adventure would be nothing short of extraordinary, despite the alarming lack of beer and women.
For me, the bird was nothing more than an excuse, and the destination only mattered for its mysteries rather than its guarantees. I found myself happily lost in the sweet smell of the Ozarks of my youth, the fog that came in low white pockets atop the dusky starless roads winding through a land which still provides a deep wild darkness that remains under-appreciated and surprisingly unknown. Early Saturday morning, while the moon was still too low and red to provide the radiant light it would shine a few hours later, we crossed the White, and in the deep blue black, it had a wooly and quietly spectacular glow all it’s own. I had been driving most the day, and yet I was awake with a passion for this gorgeous thickness that has not yet spoiled. There on the road, in a place I had never been, amid memories of a thousand places similar, I was reminded of what beckons, frightens, and excites me as much as any canvas, idea, or girl.
The people we left behind probably didn’t even notice our short absence. The trip was informal and brief, and to the sort of person we puzzled with our reasons, it may be seen as a disappointment, even a failure. There was a cottonmouth, deer, spiders, hillbillies, dragonflies, alligator gars, and a beautiful young forrest ranger, but no bird. We quietly knew there would not be from the beginning. And yet it’s the sort of trip that seems to hold a thousand miniature stories. The kind of stories that can not be adequately told unless you tell them all. Some were funny, and some were sad, and some simply mark my mind with wonder. Such as the moment we arrived on a sandy stretch of wet land, after crowding an ATV trail for what seemed like miles, in trees so thick, beneath a canopy so tall, in a land beyond the refuge that belonged to no man, and failed to provide evidence of any such thing. The end of the earth, the ranger called it. We got out and stood by the banks, presented by a view that was untouched by humanity, and unchanging. We had come the furthest we would travel, standing in the current of three American rivers that had already swallowed dozens more. The Arkansas of my origin, that runs through the city I was born to. The White of my youth, that gave me childhood adventures aplenty. And the Mississippi, the waters of my future. I wanted to go further. Just across was Tennessee, we could go to Greenville or Memphis. But it was there, by the symbol beneath our feet, that I knew we had come far enough. Though there is an arch a few hundred miles north, any historian, geographer, or philosopher would agree that we had arrived at the unofficial Gateway to the West.
By the time we reached the stretch of Interstate that is just south of Fayetteville, after hours of a flapping denim flag on the passenger side, TJ’s trousers had nearly dried. As we drew closer to the lights of a long tunnel, TJ cleared his eyes and sat up from his slumber. Are we in the hills again? he anxiously asked. The Boston Mountains I said, with a tone of pride that surprised me. Well Goddamn, he declared, I wish we could see it. I nodded my head. But for all we had seen that day, and after all that I had been so fortunate to see on trips previous, I was satisfied with my ability to imagine the landscape that enveloped a road which by its sheer darkness, looked no different from the roads back home. I was satisfied with the mystery, with the darkness, and with the fact that the unlit splendor we were missing could undoubtedly match my wildest dreams.