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My other self—as he might have been called in a brief, ambiguous novel—was in this instance a bush pilot, several hundred feet above Third Matagamon Lake, face to face with a strong winter wind. The plane was a Super Cub, scarcely large enough for the two of us. We sat in tandem and talked through an intercom. There is a lot of identification, even transformation, in the work I do—moving along from place to place, person to person, as a reporter, a writer, repeatedly trying to sense another existence and in some ways to share it.
Never had that been more true than now, in part because he was sitting there with my life in his hands while placing in another way his life in mine. He spoke with affection about the plane, calling it a sophisticated kite and admitting his amazement that it could take such a frontal battering when all it was made of, essentially, was cotton. I said that was amazing, right enough—and how fast did he imagine the wind was blowing?
He said he could guess, with some help from the airspeed indicator, but one way to tell for sure was to stop the plane. Flying level, holding course, he slowed down, and slowed down more, and told me to watch the ground until the spruce did not move. A steady progression over the trees became a stately progression over the trees, and ultimately—like a frame of motion picture frozen on a screen—came to a dead stop. With respect to the earth, we were stock-still. Against the deep snow, the spruce made chevrons with their shadows.
Nothing in the pattern moved. Katahdin, on our flank—sparkling white above its ruff of dark trees—did not move. The black forest reached to the horizon around the white paisley shapes of the Allagash Lakes—a scene preserved before us as if it were on canvas, while we hung there at ground speed zero.
