The Riverbank

There were still hermits in Tasmania, especially down in the South and the farthest West in particular. They were not so unusual in that corner. Philippe needed to go down there, re-locate in fact; not these trips back and forth. Living out in the wilds might be beyond him—fishing, hunting for food and the rest—but a town somewhere on the fringe of the forest was manageable. This cooping in the city could not be endured any longer; the virus had of course made it harder. We spoke under a large tree with a wide canopy in the little park, sitting on the grass. The building behind provided shelter, there was no wind there. Philippe had grown a beard like many of us during confinement. Philippe needed to walk in the wilderness, that was all, he said. Within the wilderness everything was altogether different. This afternoon Philippe told of a river he had come upon on one of his recent trips, a rapidly running river. Pieces of fallen timber had been carried at speed by the rushing water. How to ford there presented a question? Could it be done? Philippe described sitting by the riverside for the remainder of the day pondering. Tie a rope around himself and wade out to give it a try. Pack by a tree also tied and pull it across afterward perhaps. Through the afternoon the river kept up its rapid run. In the morning Philippe returned to the bank to calculate again. Another two or three hours he sat there. Coming upon a tree down below would drag him under, no help for it. It was too rapid. It could not be done. The night before Philippe had calculated the same. No, it couldn’t be done. It was five hours back to the town. Well, no two ways about it, off then. No sense of failure involved. Indeed there had been some accomplishment. A settled decision had been taken.