Eliza F. Cava

A version of this essay without photographs was published in SAGE Magazine in April 2011, and can be viewed as originally published here.

It’s ten thirty at night, and in the bright light the wet caribou comes over the rise and rolls her eyes at me.  Thirty more caribou does and calves follow, knee joints popping and hooves clicking on the loose gravel of the hilltop.  Frozen in place, I watch the caribou walk steadily past, nose to tail, shaking off fur still damp from their river crossing in the valley below.  Brown with lighter spots on top and short, fuzzy horns, the animals are so near and yet seem oblivious to our presence.  Their breath hangs in the air, shot through with buzzing flies.  The enchantment lasts until one nearly steps on my knapsack and the camera inside.  I take an involuntary step forward, my shadow crosses the face of one of the mothers, and the herd takes off—thundering down the slope and across the mountain bowl faster than seems possible.  In their wake, a few long, thick hairs settle down onto the rocks at our feet and we gaze after the herd, watching mothers and babies scatter across the bowl like so many white ants on a dull green background. Continue reading →

Tags: Environment, Family, Green, Inspiration, Outdoors