Spirit Lake

My change was so innocent, peaceful even. Not at all like the beginning of the end of Mount St. Helens. To understand my incarnation, I suppose I should explain the violence that happened before my birth: the eruption of Mt. St. Helens. In one instant, May 18th, 1980, she blasted out 23 square miles of rock, mud and debris; a hot, steaming avalanche that reached 300 mph, killing 61 people, most of which landed in Spirit Lake. What didn't land in Spirit Lake was washed back down into the lake by an 850-foot wave. All in all, about 430,000,000 cubic meters of pyrolyzed trees, organic matter (including human), volcanic ash and debris landed in Spirit Lake: my lake.

Then all was quiet, no evidence of life for miles around, no annoying chirping, pecking birds (more on that later), stomping growling animals, chattering squirrels and a wind that blew silently over the dead terrain. The horror was beautiful. The trees laid like broken matchsticks on the gray ash covered barren ground. Absolutely no color to be seen, which is just the way I like it. If there was going to be color, it would be me. Consider it my calling card, a card with your name on it. A playful little beckon to come hither.

Weird, but I have a recollection of always being colorful. It's like an echo that bounces off of the lake, "Isn't he colorful!" Sometimes it's a faint whisper carried by the silent wind whiffling the words, "Boy, he sure adds a lot of color to Spirit Lake." So, color is good; at least for me.

The only time I hide my color is when Bob, the scientist comes around. I don't like Bob. I call him Bob because he is always bobbing around my lake taking things then putting them in plastic bags. One day he took a piece of me! The fucker! So now when he comes around, I hide under the shadows of the log jam. He doesn't dare go near there. The logs would crush his tiny boat like it was made of paper. Fitting end, really.

The log jam is a serendipitous natural marvel and did I mention, my favorite place to hide. The sunlight barely filters down beneath the mat of logs made from a million shattered huge cedars and firs stripped of their bark glistening silvery gray from the years of weathering. The sound of them gently banging into each other is calming; a deep thudding that ripples through me. I like to cling to the underside of the logs and let them carry me around since I don't move very fast myself. My inability to move fast is vexing. I am reminded of the movie, "The Blob." I can barely remember it, but that is me in a nutshell...except, I am more colorful, amorphous and trasparent. I'm a cloud floating under water. You wouldn't know it if you touched me or I touched you. The Blob was a red, sticky, shiny goo and you felt it's touch. In fact, it slowly melted your flesh until you were nothing! I am iridescent greens and blues, plus I glow in the dark. I'm not that vile.

Anyway, Bob is back. So, I am hiding. The damned birds are hopping around on the tops of the logs trying to get a peck of me. Fuckers! It hurts! It feels like a tiny pinch. They wouldn't like it if I got a hold of them, that's for sure. But the birds are too fast. Another reason why being slow vexes me. The birds only want to feast on my greatness. I try to splash; the pathetic result is a non-comitted wave. This is my lake, go away! I'm trying to listen to Bob!

"This is so strange. The Rainbow Trout are growing, at least, three times faster than normal. The lake has to be feeding them some sort of super nutrients. However, I cannot identify the nutrients or the source." Bob muttered to himself, then he jotted down notes in his book.

Duh. They nibble on me! I let them because it tickles, unlike those damned birds! And have I said yet just how magnifico I am?

"Stranger yet, I can't find a Trout that lives past five years. Mysteriously, they seem to die or disappear around the age of five. They grow super fast, then, poof, they are gone. Absolutely no trace of dead or dying Trout."

Duh. Bob isn't too bright. I've been studying him for years now and he still doesn't know I even exist. But I know everything about him. He's nerdier than Bill Nye, if that is possible. How I know about Bill Nye is still a mystery to me. Memories seem to float around in me, flashes of the time of the before.

Once, when I beckoned to Bob by flashing my colors then touched him, I could sense everything about him, like an empath. He is a dullard. But his wife is even duller. His greatest joy in life is to bob around Spirit Lake every day scooping up endless samples of water, plankton, count salamanders and frogs and fish. His sex life is nonexistent, precursory really; and that just won't do for me. I have a vicariouse sex life and Bob's is about as exciting as the Trout's.

Sex aside, I have a primal urge to be more, figuratively speaking. I am like a ghost without a body. I need a body. Bob won't do. It would be like absorbing more blob, no life essence. I need to find a life to have a life: if that makes sense. I know I am live, but I don't feel whole yet. In the last forty years, I have evolved to what I am today. Like I said before, it was a peaceful beginning; excuse me, Bob is muttering again, I must concentrate.

"I still haven't figured out how the lake became oxygenated so quickly. Within one year, the lake water was clear and full of Oxygen. This is unheard of. Even now, as a lake goes, Spirit Lake has a higher level of Oxygen than any of the samples taken from the surrounding lakes."

Duh, Bob, the unheard of is me. I started out as a small collection of cells that somehow survived the eruption. I survived against all odds in a toxic sludge of wastewater that bubbled with volcanic gasses. Spirit Lake was dead, dead, dead, except for me. I thrived. I was alone, which was a bummer, but I thrived. I could absorb the most noxious of volcanic gasses then convert them to Oxygen. Probably because, I myself, need Oxygen and you know what they say, necessity is the key to survival. So, I became very good at producing Oxygen.

That was fine for the first twenty years, being alone, learning to survive, but now I am bored. I am even bored with fishing which was my favorite past time, in the past time. But, after thirty years of fishing every day, well, you get the picture. Now, I fish mainly to entertain myself, because I like to stump Bob. I eat all the fish that get to the age of five, just to watch Bob scratch his head. What a chump.

Oh Bob! It's about time you left my lake. That's it, go back to Mrs. Dullard and regale all the knowledge you didn't learn today. I need to get home so I can get some sleep. I have a distinct urge to close my eyes, even though I don't have any eyes. I don't need them. This seems weird to me. I long for eyes, but I don't need them. I can hear, but I don't have ears. I can even smell, but I don't have a nose. Yet, I remember having all of those strange appendages.

My home is a massive tower of broken trees that push up from the muddy bottom of the lake: a dead under the water woods. The water drifts around the stumps in deep blues, very placid. I need sleep to revitalize, reorganize my collection of cells. Sometimes they want to shed or wander away from me. This is fearsome. I don't want to dissipate and disappear into the lake. I must figure out a way to become more permanent. To be a substantial being, not a ghost blob.

When I rest, and only when I rest, I dream. I have the same dream over and over. I'm sure it must mean something I just can't put my finger on it, (there I go again, describing appendages I don't have). I'm this funky old man, rocking in a chair, raising my glass to Mt. Saint Helens and saying, "Cheers, motherfucker!" I can see a boob popping out of the side of Mt. Saint Helens. I watch it with sheer fascination. Then I say, "wicked" and "Thar she blows!" That's when I drop my drink and run straight down into my Spirit Lake. Then all is quiet as I slowly wake up. Every night I have this dream, without fail.

When I wake up, I have to gather the bits and pieces of me that have floated off into my fortress of dead woods. Which is what I am doing now. Fuck! I need some glue! I have to solve this problem, fast. But first, I think I will go fishing...again. Off I go back to the log jam. The fish like it there too.

"Jack! Jaaaack! You're too close. Get away from the logs."

"Don't be such a fraidycat, Lizette. I just want to touch one of them."

"It says, right here, in bold letters, STAY AWAY FROM THE LOGS. DANGEROUS! And the word dangerous has an exclamation after it. That must mean something."

"Danger is my middle name and pushing limits is my game. There see, I touched one. No big deal."

"Okay, so now get back here. This was supposed to be a fun picnic. I am not having any fun."

"I just want to see how easy they roll. Give me one more minute. I'm just going to give this log a little roll"

"No, Jack."

"Yes, Lizette. Hey! Come look! There's slime on the underside. Gross! Come feel!"

"No way. Not interested"

"Chicken"

"Do you want to hear me cluck?"

"No, I get it."

"Good. So, are you coming back?"

"One more thing."

"No one more thing!"

"I just want to push a log. See what happens."

Jack pushed the log closest to him which created an undulating affect of logs bumping into one another. The dull thud of logs banging into one another made a musical noise. The large trees with a deep thud against the smaller trees with a high light thud.

"Cool. Do it again."

"Really, Lizette? You want me to do it again?"

"Yeah. That was kind of neat sounding."

"Okay. I'll give this log a big push!"

The musical logs interrupted a certain fisherman's catch.

I heard that. Interesting. I better check this out. It's not Bob, I know that for sure. He stays away from the logs. Don't go away! I'll be there, sometime soon, I hope.

Jack stayed at the edge of the lake smiling back at Lizette as he pushed the logs. Lizette smiled back. She clapped her hands and danced to the music Jack made with the thumping logs. Then she stopped. Then she pointed out toward the lake. Jack kept smiling, he was having fun.

"Jack. Jack!"

"Wuzzup?"

"I think I see something. Over there. In the lake. It's glittery!"

"Oh, it's probably the sunlight reflecting on the lake."

"No. It's moving."

"So, the sunlight can't move?"

"No, you idiot. It's moving right toward you. Look!"

Jack turned around, put his hand over his eyes and peered out to the lake. He could see nothing but a million silvery gray logs, still making music in the water. "I don't see anything."

"It's under the logs. Get out!"

Not so fast, Jack. I like the vibe I'm getting from you. You're all adventurous and strong and curious and not a nerd. Here, let me glow for you. That way you can see me better. You know, it's my calling card.

"I see it! Wow! Jack turned to Lizette, "It's pretty!"

"It's pretty? Really? Not a very guy thing to say. How about, let's make like a hockey player and get the puck out of there!"

"Just a minute. If I move this log over there, I can get a little bit closer and take a better look at it."

Jack moved one log, then another to wade further into Spirit Lake. He didn't notice the logs closing around behind him; until one bumped him.

"Ow! What the fuck?"

"Jack! Turn around! Come back to the shore!"

"Good idea. Ow! Boy, I feel like a dope. That sign wasn't kid..."

Just then two logs came together like a vice. He fell over the top of the log, lost his footing and rolled under the water. He tried to reach up between the logs to move them apart, but they smashed his fingers. Fuck. The logs were on top of him and the lake bed pressed on his back. He wiggled like a worm to deeper water hoping to get his footing back. Maybe if he could stand up between two logs, he could catch a break. There were no breaks.

That's right. Come to papa.

Panic set in as he tried to gasp for breath. Jack reached out for air. The logs rolled under his clawing nails, then smashed his fingers. Over and over again he tried to reach the surface. Lights began to flash in front of his eyes. He could hear Lizette in muffled tones screaming his name. The sound of her screams, like an echo, became fainter with each repetition.

All of a sudden, Jack became calm, closed his eyes and went limp. Instinct beckoned him to breath. He knew it would kill him, but the urge was too great. He slowly took, what he thought would be his last breath.

With a start, he opened his eyes. Luminous color surrounded him. Jack took a breath, then another. Jack looked around and felt the amorphous gell that surrounded him; like bubbles in a bubble bath.

"I can breath." Jack whispered.

"Thank you, very much."

"Who said that?"

"I did. I like you. Keep breathing. I am Oxygen."

"What? That does not make sense. I am Oxygen. Don't be ridiculous."

"Okay, so I'm not Oxygen, but I produce a lot of Oxygen and right now my cells are entering your lungs so you can breathe. Does that satisfy you?"

"Not really. Am I dead?"

"Yes and no."

"Again, that does not compute. I am either alive or I am not alive. Which is it?"

"Well, it's kind of hard to explain. You are an experiment. If it works, we both will be alive and better for it, an amalgam of sorts. I am absorbing your body, combining my cells with yours. I am trying to make your body mine or should I say, ours?"

"What? What if I don't want to be absorbed."

"Would you rather die?"

"No, but..."

"No buts. If this doesn't work, we both may die. So shut up and let me do my thing."

Jack felt a calm spread through him; a warm electric current. His will gave way to another's. He let the colorful cells flow into and around his body. Jack felt peaceful. He began to be aware of the cool water of Spirit Lake as it flowed against his skin. Strangely, it felt good, normal even. The logs above thudded gently, the vibrations made small waves that coursed through his body, almost like a pulse.

"Done."

"Did it work?"

"Dunno. Time will tell. Let's go for a swim. Test our new body out."

"I want to go back to Lizette. Tell her I'm okay."

"No can do."

"But I want to, it's important."

"Look, let's swim past the log jam and I will show you, why you no can do."

"Okay, let's go!"

They swam to the edge of the log jam with great speed. With real appendages, they flew through the water like Aquaman. They looked back toward the shore where they saw Lizette, crying. She was pointing toward the logs as she held on to two park rangers who stood next to her, shaking their heads.

"See. We don't want the rangers to know about us."

"Why not?"

"Well, for starters, I just sort of absorbed you. You don't exactly look like your beautiful self anymore. And I don't want to go to jail, or what ever they would do with something like us. Do you?"

"Good point."

"Let's swim some more. Check out our speed. This is great! I'm a true-man! Hey that's me, Truman! I remember my name!"

"I think we should change that name. I think we should be called Jackman, since it was my body that you jacked."

"Funny. You have a nice sense of humor. I knew I would like you."

"Well, I hope I was tasty."

"Again, funny. We're going to have fun!"

"I need a beer."

"No can do. We live on the purified water of Spirit lake and Trout."

"I hate fish!"

"Too bad. That's our daily entre'. Not to worry though, I am a good fisherman."

"Great. Can we at least discuss mixing it up with something else?"

"Sure. I know a guy named Bob."

"Sounds good."

"He's probably not."