Weary from the exertions of the ascent, I paused to rest, and became aware of the air slowly beginning to warm around me. I knew then that dawn was approaching, though I had not seen much more of the night sky then a few stars here and there as openings in the forest canopy had allowed. I began to think of shelter and security for the coming day, a place of concealment to lay up and lick my wounds; to observe my surroundings, to think and to scheme. Dawn began to creep into the forest from the top, filtering down in paler shades of grey to dapple the ground and the leaves of bracken here and there from above. Reclining my head, and lifting pale blue grey eyes toward the sky, my answer came clearly into view; the trees. I would take refuge in the dense, living, flowing sea of green above my head. Limbs moved and swayed as the wind soughed among them, slight movements made by my weight might be overlooked, if anyone; or anything, looked up at all.

Rising to my feet, I began to scout the area for a tree with limbs within reach, or a trunk with thick coarse bark that could be gripped enough to be climbed. Within three chains distance I found what I sought, a tall straight evergreen tree, some species of Pine with which I was not familiar. Its limbs were exceedingly thick, regularly spaced, and densely foliated; it must have been ancient to have reached its immense proportions. With what was surely the look of awe upon my face, and a sense of relief in my sigh, I leaned against the tree and took firm hold of the bark with my hands. I touched my forehead to the trunk, nodded and whispered softly with a sincere tone, "Thank you" before beginning the climb toward the first thick limbs which stood more than six times my own height from the ground. Clinging to the tree bark by fingers and toes, mentally I became little more than a hairless squirrel; quickly I began to climb, scrambling here and there along its surface as best I could in order to rise to meet the waiting embrace of the limbs above.

I have loved climbing trees since I was a child; I cannot say why exactly, or how, but I have always felt more at peace among trees. Something about them simply provides a sense of well being, of belonging, of home. I do not trust places with no trees. Needless to say, I was very content to, nay, excited to climb such massive trees as those surrounding me now. Up I went, joyfully t least, if not so quickly as I had hoped. Before three suns ago, I could not remember the last time i had seen, or touched, or or smelled, or spoken to a tree; they had become things of long distant memory, so long ago that I had begun to that fear they may have been a figment of my imagination entirely. I scrambled among the limbs near playfully, moving quickly, hand over foot, limb over limb, counting my vertical paces the same as I did with the horizontal ones. I had a habit of counting to myself, enumerating my paces, dragging the chain they said. Twenty two paces to the chain, sixty six feet of chain, eighty chains to the mile. I found it helpful for estimating distances, I liked keeping up with such things insofar as they were beneficial to me; beyond that, I cared not. There were no chains here with me now, other than those dragged about with me from place to place by my own mind.

Pausing for rest, I straddled a thick limb and slid in securely against the trunk of the tree, wrapping my legs around it and settling back against the limb to recline for a time. The sky from my perch, was no brighter; the canopy above was full and thick, turning my head to look down, i estimated myself to be about sixty or sixty five feet above the ground and still yet well below the leaves which would soon be harvesting sunlight. I allowed myself fifteen or twenty minutes of respite and would not rest again until I was well within the safe and shady seclusion of the canopy which danced and sang, rejoicing in life with the wind. Gripping the tree with my heels, I sat upright again, pulled myself to my feet and began another ascension. Somewhere deep inside my mind, another page turned, and I was climbing the rigging of the French fre'gate, "La Nymphe", toward the nid-de-pie; the crow's nest, to stand watch for Spanish and British galleons. I often passed the time this way during the crossing from La Rochelle toward Newfoundland with the westerly winds stinging my cheeks and ears. 

I had greatly enjoyed those rare moments when the scattering of sunlight or moonlight played upon the floating ice and rolling waves; sparkling like tens of thousands of brilliant fragments of bright jewels of many colors cast freely in all directions. The experience of witnessing it was an immersive one; mesmerizing to behold, it became a hypnotic moment, a moment of communion between myself, the living world, and the Creator of all things. It was a timeless moment, as is only to be found among the creations conjured by the minds of dreaming gods and children. 
 
Some eight weeks under sail into the crossing, we had exchanged cannon and musket fire through dense morning fog with what we believed to be a British vessel of our own class. I considered the engagement to be a personal affair conducted with military efficiency. It seemed to be driven more or less by national disdain; soldiers of opposing armies and navies taking pot shots in at each other in passing was nothing new, it was a practice as old as time; and it was more than a duty, it was practically a hobby to us. Noise and excitement is good for a fighting man's morale, it lifts his spirits; officers bark orders, bells ring and trumpets blare, battle formations are hurried into position; the rolling thunder and flashing lightning of arms fills the air densely with cheers and screams, smoke and lead, mutilation and death. Reports are made, plans are drawn, orders are issued, and gold flows; ships are launched, men and beasts move, and eat, and rest while waiting to bleed; the waters and ground drink up their blood, the sun rises, the fish swims, the grass grows, songs are sung, stories are told, and so life goes on year after year, land after land, and sea after sea.

Eventually, we would pass to the south of Newfoundland, and push onward making for that great inland sea, the Gulf of Saint Lawrence; where the icy waters of the North Atlantic meet the wildly churning freshwater drainage of a river by the same name. here we would tarry nigh a fortnight for a log jammed icepack to melt, break apart and be swept away again by the current. A week later, well within the Saint Lawrence river, La Nymphe's guns rang out again sending smoking lead hurtling toward something that swam nearly thirty yards off her port bow. From my vantage point at the time, only once and briefly did I see an undulation in the water; later rumors gave a more detailed description of a dark skinned snakelike beast with shining eyes, some twenty five feet in length with lateral fins as long and thick as oars; wearing horns upon its head, and a long dorsal fin along most of its back. I personally saw no such thing, but did not rule out its existence. The remainder of the voyage to Quebec was uneventful, if one overlooked the  continual minor threat to boil the ships cook, a rather gloomy Parisian, in his own gruel at eight bells.

It was thus I had arrived in Quebec, the capital of New France as a homeless Irishman wearing the uniform of a Chassuers a' Cheval of the French Royal Army,  bearing the insignia of a Maréchal des Logis Chef. I was in command of a very small detachment, with a very specific set of orders; to expediently push deep into the north west territories to the area of the Great Slave Lake, by any means necessary. My rank was one of merit due to my seemingly unique collection of abilities; I was no heroic warrior, no brilliant tactician, and no savvy political pundit. I was a surveyor. A surveyor with a curious mind, and a reputation for practicality and determination; an eye for details, and an ear for languages; and a knack for survival in harsh conditions. Those qualities had been proven as a Gael, many times during the war before the signing of the Treaty of Limerick; and many times since in the name of France. Now apparently, France was sending me north toward the tundra to scout the lake and fur routes, and to conduct site specific surveys for the future placement of trading posts.

I shook my head furiously; to break the chain of the memories I carry, and coming to my senses as if from a daydream, I relized that I was now well within the dense concealment of the shadowy canopy. Surprised and exhausted, I looked for a place to settle down securely for a longer nap. I needed the sleep, but I didn't want the dreams that came soon after. All that shit was a long time ago now and cannot be changed, but the ghosts still haunt my dreams. I hoped I wouldn't thrash much in my sleep; the fall from here, would be, unpleasant.