The Last River Rat by J Scott Bestul

Author:J Scott Bestul
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Voyageur Press
Published: 2001-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Ginseng season is short and, like most everything in bluff country, dictated by the weather. On a mid-September day we decide on one more hunt to cap the season. Kenny warns beforehand that the plants are dying for the year, their once-golden leaves wilting and falling one by one. Our outing is more a denial of time’s passage than a serious quest, and after several hours of walking good ground, we’re forced to face the truth. The final omen comes as we crest a small hill and find a monstrous, four-prong plant lying on its side, its once-golden leaves a wrinkled gauze moldering against the forest floor. We kneel beside the largest plant of the season, carefully brushing away leaf litter in order to find the bud stem that will reveal the root. But we find no trace and Kenny says simply, “We can’t dig this one. Without seeing the bud stem, we could damage the root if we try.” He reads the incredulous look on my face, jabs me with an elbow and grins. “Told you it’s elusive.”

It seems a fitting end to the season, and we leave the woods, a breeze with the promise of October against our shoulders. Kenny suggests we stop at the farmhouse of the landowner to say hi, and when we pull into the yard, I decide to let the dogs out for a drink. We’ve run hours in the hills and they look as parched as I feel. As I walk to the farmhouse, I notice Cody drinking deeply from a five-gallon pail, his graying muzzle dripping water. I smile broadly— not knowing the water is mixed with antifreeze that will kill him.

Cody’s death shakes me as deeply as that of any loved one. I decide to bury him in the timberline behind my house, in a cover where we chased grouse and pheasants on many autumn afternoons. It takes me many minutes to dig the hole, many more to sit beside Cody’s still, tranquil form and sift through my memories of him.

When I’ve shoveled the last spade of dirt to cover him, I place a round slab of stone to mark the spot. Worried that I won’t remember this stone from the others I see, I search for another, more visible marker. Absently, I stick my hand in a coat pocket and my fingers close around a small snuff tin that rattles when I touch it. I recognize the sound instantly and fumble with the lid, a palmful of ginseng seeds tumbling into my hand as the cover slides off. There are easily three dozen seeds, plenty to start a small stand of plants that could last several generations if nurtured carefully. I can think of no better marker for this sad, quiet place in the woods. I press each seed carefully into the soil, pat the ground affectionately, then start the long walk across the field to home.

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