Wanderer Out Of The Wilderness
WANDERER OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
©Wolf Avni 18/9/2007
There I was minding my own business at the huge old mahogany desk in the corner. Much of its expanse is taken up by a thoroughly modern clutter of computer geek-stuff; a sprawl of plasma screens, printers, processors, terabyte-drives and enough ancillary DTP-hardware to stock a modest electronics component shop. Atop the cabinets a pair of speakers repose, pouring a wall of music around the space where I work. The sounds are an eclectic mix of classical, acid rock and folk-jazziness, the mind-sets, words and chords resonant of distant times and far-off places.
So there I was... listening to this mellowed-out mix in the coolth of Computer Corner to one side of the huge windows commanding a view north-east over the lake and up the valley, when the dogs began to give voice. They have a repertoire of distinct and discrete barks, the tone and timbre of each expressing a precise assessment of exigence, and you could tell from the pitch that a body not of the pack was approaching the homestead. Unusually, their attention was focussed towards the lake, more particularly, towards the pines growing along its western aspect rather than towards the buckled track connecting us to the outside world. Their bawling was specific; alert and more-than-interested, yet without any undertone of the strident urgency employed when they assess a threat as dire. Still, they would not let up until I responded by joining them to sniff over whatever might be approaching. So, kicking up from the chair I headed for the sundeck. The dogs, their tails stiff and bristling were waiting only for that and they squirted off down the lawn towards the trees as I stepped outside. Before I had made it as far as the stairs even, they were disappearing into the pines at the water’s edge, but before they vanished I saw that their tails had softened into broad, friendly wags and reading it, I let them go.
They reappeared almost instantly from beneath the canopy, cavorting and bounding around the human figure that now accompanied them. As the pack made its way boisterously back up the lawn the sorry-ass form in their midst became defined. It was Zachariah, recognisable from his general comportment, attire and easy familiarity with the dogs. In the mountains he affects a scruffiness that rivals my own and coming up toward the house he looked like what the world needs more of; another refugee from the frontline of the denim revolution.
Zachariah, though you might never think it were he to wander out of the wilderness onto your front lawn, is a master at one of the toffeenose schools that litter the Midlands, and every year he chaperones a party of pubescent youths out on their annual scholastic bush hike through the mountains. When they overnight up at the Umzimkulwana hut, he visits from time to time.
Every year as spring begins to tinge the hills with green, old Zachariah winds his way down the valley and pops in for a bit of a natter. The conversation is easy. It skips over the landscape and beyond the horizon as we talk of many things... of trout and of fly-fishing and of the rains that have not come. It takes a couple of brisk showers to get the river fishing properly and so we fret that again it is a dry September. We speak of the tiny, sweet-fleshed fish that survive the winters in these thin waters on the upper Umzimkulwana, and of how the bigger, thick flanked fish flee downstream in search of the broad shadows in the deeper pools down there. We talk of the far, far past and of the forces that shape this landscape, of the San who once peopled it, their shelters and their rock-art. But more, we listen to old Dylan guitar riffs and ponder the meaning, or lack of it in things. Usually when guests arrive I turn the music down, or off, but with Zach it is different and I can crank the volume without any fear of giving offence or invoking discomfort. His arrival is always a surprise, a small unlooked-for pleasure. I offer him a drink to quench his thirst after the long hike along the river from Umzimkulwana Hut and his plea is for a glass of cold water straight off the mountain. I think that’s why I like him. Our tastes and our views seem to mesh in more than just a common appreciation for song lyrics, guitar riffs and the flavour of this pure mountain water. Our mythologies share a common alphabet. We talk about many things, subjects that find their way into the modest texts I write and I am refreshed by this small token that not everybody finds them incomprehensible. He always arrives late of an afternoon, stays for an hour or two and then leaves as the sun begins its slide into the hills, leaving himself a brisk walk to make it back up to the hut in the mountains before darkness fully swallows all into a moonless night.
This year saw his third or fourth visit and it seems almost to have become a small ritual. Anyway, his annual calls are short, a pleasant interlude, and as I watched his figure recede back up the valley I was reminded of his first visit, coincidentally occasioned by this very column. Apparently he had read one of these columns and had felt constrained to enquire the employment of a particular phrase with its author. Now any guy who will walk ten kilometres to find out why I would choose to use ‘emend’ rather than ‘amend’ in a sentence, gets my attention. I resolved as I watched him vanish around a rocky spur, that next time I saw him we would take a couple of 3 weight rods and go fish the river together.