Their High Abode

Anna Mallikarjunan (Montreal, Canada)

I

Up on Mont Royal, the crests of trees had begun changing into varying shades of yellow, red, and pink. It was a weekday in late September, and there were only a few hikers on Montreal’s urban mountain. I walked along a trail up to its peak, and from where I stood, a forest valley stretched before me, the sun trickling through its trees and the songs of its myriad creatures filling the air. Rising above this orchestra of the forest was a sharp, repetitive chirp. At first, it sounded like a cardinal, but as I listened carefully, I found that the tone was deeper than the call of that brilliant, red-crested bird. I looked for the source of the sound and found, sitting on the ledge of a small rock that jutted out against a sheer drop of the mountain’s face, a chipmunk, or tamia, the endearing word for him in French. The chirp emerged from the depths of his belly, and his entire being heaved from the effort, making it appear as if he was calling out with all his heart. Many of his compatriots of the forest chirped back in answer, and this communication ritual went on for a while. There was something ancient and binding in the ritual, and it stirred a long-forgotten yet instant recognition within me. This perception is like a timeless remembrance of countless lifetimes, of knowing the earth intimately—a primordial love without cause. The pleated bark of a tree, the rough, ridged texture of a rock, the earth’s scent before the first rains after a warm spell—all these can stir such recognition. After all, the separation between the earth and the senses is merely a word, a thought, a memory, a mental habit, an association. When none of these stands between oneself and perception, is there separation?

I returned to Mont Royal with a friend a few weeks later, in early October. There were many visitors that day, so it was unusual to see a barred owl perched on a tree close to one of the hiking trails. I had seen her in the past, but never at such close quarters. Her mottled brown and white plumage blended in with the branch of the tree she sat on, camouflaging her so effectively that we were lucky to have spotted her. Her audience grew gradually, and many were taking pictures of her. She looked calmly and piercingly back at them with her deep, dark eyes, and there was great dignity in her presence. It started to get busy with more and more people wishing to have a glimpse of her, so we decided to move on. At the top of this trail is a swamp with standing water and a collection of lovely old trees that attract a variety of insects through the warm months and birds throughout the year. Water flows from the swamp under a wooden bridge and down along the side of the mountain. When snow melts in spring, often dramatically in a day or two, the enormous amount of resultant water rushes vertically down and then onto gullies all the way to the beginning of the trail. These narrow, humble ravines of gently flowing water are the babbling brooks of the urban mountain. 

On the path around the swamp that day, we came across a family of raccoons. A group of four moved about slowly, languidly, looking for things to eat beneath the fallen leaves and twigs. Once in a while, they would become affectionate with each other, one nuzzling the other’s back with a nose or forehead. A young member of the group walked quickly up to me, looked at me with his scrutinizing eyes, and then continued on. He stopped at a maple tree and went up a few inches. He stayed there, hugging the dark tree trunk for a few moments, then clambered down and ran off to join the rest of his family. I went over to the tree he had climbed. Like many ancient maples on the mountain, this tree’s roots spilled over the ground around the base of its trunk like pools of molten wood embracing the earth. It was nearly dusk when we returned down the trail. The barred owl was gone by then, but we could hear her resonating call in the distance. 

Some years prior, on a late summer’s evening, I had walked up to the swamp with my friend. It was still light when we got there, and we stood on the bridge overlooking the swamp, chatting for a few minutes. A few moments later, a hushed silence descended on us; it came gently but compellingly. The sound of the city seemed to grow distant as birdsong and the wind among the trees claimed this silence. A pair of women emerged from a path ahead with a little black Scottish terrier at their heels. The terrier turned to look at us and stood still for a moment. He then trotted decisively in our direction, away from his owners, who were lost in conversation. He came over and established himself in the space on the ground between us. As he sat quietly watching the swamp with us, the reigning silence seemed to enclose him too, and not a sound, perhaps not even a thought, passed between the three of us. His owners noticed his absence a little while later, and he hurried off at their beckoning call. Since that day, the swamp and its environs have become hallowed—in our hearts, at any rate. I often walk along the path around the swamp; the bridge forms one of its sides. It reminds me of the ancient Indian ritual of giri pradakshina, a practice of walking around a beloved, holy hill in a clockwise direction. It is an expression of devotion and love, not just for the hill but for all creation. The mountain is home to many beautiful creatures—falcons, pileated woodpeckers, finches, mallards, groundhogs, and rabbits, among others. Fledgling mallards walk the razor’s edge between life and death each day; squirrels give visiting dogs a fair day’s play before employing their climbing skills; and robins sing with abandon from the depths of the forest, filling the air with the music of joy. The struggles of all these creatures are as real as their vitality and innocent trust in life.

II

I never expected to see any of the familiar mountain dwellers again. But the opportunity to meet my old acquaintances came one quiet evening a few weeks later. I saw three of the raccoons in the same space as before, busy foraging. I found a large rock formation a little further up from there and sat down. From this vantage point, I had a hemispherical view of the forest below. It was a pleasant autumn day; there was a gentle breeze after a day of heavy rains. Many of the trees had already shed their leaves, but this meant you could see further into the wood. This is perhaps the most beautiful part of autumn, in which not one tree or color dominates—it is truly a plethora of autumnal shades. And in this leisurely setting, I saw the lone fourth of the raccoon family wandering about below. A cyclist came hurtling along the rough track and screeched to a halt to look at her. But by then, the sound had distressed the raccoon, and she started climbing the nearest tree. She stayed there for a while until her family appeared in the neighborhood. Soon, the four were reunited and carried on with their customary leisure and pace. That day, the barred owl was also in the same spot as the last time I had seen her. She looked sleepy, but it was a thrill to see her again. I called to her softly, and she turned lazily in my direction, blinked slowly, and turned back to gaze at the forest in front of her. Winter was soon upon us all, and the mountain dwellers moved deeper into the forest either to hibernate or to shelter from the cold arctic air.

It was well into the following spring when I saw the barred owl again. She was on a high branch of a tree, and it was troubling to find her in fierce combat with a flock of ravens. I gathered that she must have been protecting her nest, for she did not relinquish her perch readily. At first, she was unperturbed and simply ignored their raucous calls as they pushed her unrelentingly from branch to branch. She bore this for a while, but overwhelmed by exasperation and possibly exhaustion, she flapped her enormous wings at them like a dragon. And although they outnumbered her easily, the sheer strength of her personality was enough to intimidate them. The tussle continued over the next few days, but a few weeks later, to my utter delight, I saw her with a fledgling on a trail deeper in the woods. It was a charming scene: the little one would fly to her and nestle against her, craving his mother’s attention. The mother would oblige for a while, but worn out by her fledgling’s unceasing demands, she would then fly away to another branch. It was poignant to watch the pair over the next few weeks. Then slowly, naturally, the little one grew independent of his mother’s protection, and I rarely saw them together again. 

Later that spring, I went up one of the trails leading off the main mountain path. It was a quiet evening, and I was alone on the trail when suddenly I felt I was being watched. I turned to my left to find the fledgling owl, about an arm’s distance from me, perched on the low branch of a pine tree. For a moment, I was startled to realize how close we were to each other, but I soon relaxed and returned his gaze. I continued to see him through the summer and was met on every occasion by his unabashed, childlike gaze. Then one evening, well into winter, when the mountain was engulfed in snow and the trees were bare, I saw him on a high branch, his mesmerizing silhouette framed against the moonlight. And it occurred to me how completely at home he appeared—on his high abode. 

Anna Mallikarjunan writes from her love for the natural world, lessons from her journey through illness and trauma, and gratitude for the wisdom of the ancients. Originally from South India, she presently lives in Montreal (Tiohtià:ke), on the unceded lands of the Kanien’kehá:ka.