The Tiger

by John Vaillant

Slender birches, whiter than the snow, seem to emit a light of their own, but it is like the coat of an animal in winter: cold to the touch and for itself alone. All is quiet in this dormant, frozen world. It is so cold that spit will freeze before it lands; so cold that a tree, brittle as straw and unable to contain its expanding sap, may spontaneously explode.

the Law of the Lever weighted so heavily against him,

There is an unintended courtesy in the winter forest that occurs around pathways of any kind. It takes a lot of energy to break a trail through the snow, especially when it’s crusty or deep, so whoever goes first, whether animal, human, or machine, is performing a valuable service for those following behind. Because energy—i.e., food—is at a premium in the winter, labor-saving gifts of this kind are rarely refused. As long as the footpath, logging road, frozen river—or highway—is going more or less in the desired direction, other forest creatures will use it, too, regardless of who made it. In this way, paths have a funneling, riverlike effect on the tributary creatures around them, and they can make for some strange encounters.

crows’ raucous kvetching concentrated

IF RUSSIA IS WHAT WE THINK IT IS, THEN TIGERS SHOULD NOT BE POSSIBLE there.

Their disadvantage was striking; it was as if the tiger had removed itself from the same plane of physical consequence to which they remained bound.

You have to have something—some force, which allows and helps you to survive without witnesses.

Many people reach a point where they realize that the shape their life has taken does not square with the ambitions they once had for it.

When the creatures around you are keeping you alive, it necessarily changes the relationship; survival—both physical and psychic—demands it. “The tiger will help me,” Dunkai once said, “because I’ve asked him.”