Father of the forest

  "Step this way!" called Paul, as he disappeared off the track.

   Carefully I followed behind our father, avoiding a branch that had whipped back from his shoulder.

   It was a strange outing, reminiscent of childhood years.  Two fully-grown men and their father heading out in search of a giant kauri tree.  Paul lived in the area and he had visited the tree a couple of months ago.  As a family unit this would be our first major venture in over eighteen years.

   I had only just hit my teen years the last time we were out.  My dad had seemed like the great white hunter back then.  There was not a plant or animal he could not identify.  It had been fascinating to stand there and listen to him rattle off their names.  You had felt like a privileged family that was one step closer to nature.

   He did not seem interested in reciting fauna and flora names any more.  He seemed more intent on just keeping up with the brisk pace that Paul was setting.  Paul worked for the forestry service and was very adept at moving quickly through the untamed regions of New Zealand forest.

   Dad was no longer so adept.  His foot hit a large, half-submerged root and he headed towards the ground.  His hand grasped out for the nearest branch.  It stopped his fall, but the jagged edges brought blood seeping from his hands.

   We had felt so safe those many years ago, Paul and I.  Wherever our Dad took us nothing could go wrong.  He had diverted us away from the grasp of the 'bush lawyer'.  He had cleared a path free of cutty-grass.  He had shown us which streams could be drunk from and which plants could be eaten.  We knew how to survive over night, and just as important, how to get out again the next morning.

   We had been so secure under his guidance back then.  It was not the same, to rely on Paul.  This was still the boy who had stolen my toys, called me many names and embarrassed my friends.  I did not feel so safe now.  Neither did Dad.  He had tripped on another root and almost tumbled into a large clump of cutty-grass.

   "We are almost there" announced Paul. "But to preserve the bush it would be better if we take separate tracks in.  Danny goes in to our left, I will go in to the right, and you can take the centre track, Dad."

   We nodded in silence.  You could see that Dad was impressed by his son's respect for the bush.

   I had spent a large part of my childhood in bush just like this.  Within four minutes I had hit the outer edge of the clearing.  Paul joined me soon after.  We waited.

   "Are you coming out Dad?" shouted Paul, after a few minutes.

   No reply.

   We waited a while longer.  The concern was beginning to spread across our faces like the shadows of the trees stretching out in the setting sun.

   "You keep calling." said Paul, as he disappeared back towards his beloved trees.

   Eventually Dad answered my calls and soon after he and Paul broke into the clearing.  Nothing more was said about the incident, but my confidence was shaken.  My Dad was growing old.  It is a terrible shook to realise this, that the man who had always been there for you might one day fade away.  Were you ever too old to need your Dad?

   There was no point wallowing in self-pity.  Nobody had done me wrong and nobody had done him wrong.  We headed into the centre of the clearing.  There it was.

   The mighty kauri.  The strong tree that had thrust its way through the ground and up into the air.  Once it had fought for its place in the forest.  Now it stood serenely in the centre of the clearing.

   It was old now.  Its centre was hollow and its bark gnarled and weathered.  It had long since quit fighting.  Now it stood there sheltering the other plants.  They grew under the protection of his all encompassing canopy.  Already the saplings were strong and able to stand on their own.

   We stood there, my Dad, Paul and me.  We stood and watched the father of the forest, resplendent in the dignity that only a strong life and the experiences that go with it can bring.