unless you can carry it away with your teeth…
and “hide” in the trees….
out in the forest…here in an out of the way part of America..
sure now there probably was a building here at one time, but what were they doing organizing these large stones in such a way. Were they fans of Stonehenge? Or, was there a barn here?
what do you think?
how does…a series…well, maybe it was three, no four…times of nightly trips to the cupboard to eat peanut butter….only by the spoonful…effect a wee walk on the wild side?
throaty breathing and slight dizziness….have I walked too far for the state of my body type?
if you go too far into the woods, you have gone too far.
I know. I went too far. ever have a washing machine in your stomach? the agitator is active…your innards swirling around. but the worst sensation in middle age is build-up in the muffin gut. I have heard of this malady…and it sounds terrifying. almost as frightening as eating the wrong kind of moss, succumbing to a vegetative breakdown, while armed with a “Foraging In The Wild” Guidebook in the deep, dark woods, too far from the parking lot.
they say there is nothing like vacating your colon in the woods. it is part science, and about 3/4 art. one must be careful not to fall into the….
…butt first. green leaves work better than spotted ones. or ones with that burnt-toast look. and, in light of certain Quranic references, small pebbles are really not a good idea…
but…a clean colon is a happy colon. and a happy colon abruptly ends prolonged sentences…of…
so forget about the body type…you can morph after a simple vacation. a walk in the woods can expand into a session long enough for a youtube series on “survival in the wilderness within two miles of your vehicle.” just carry plenty of hand sanitizer, soap and water, or other essentials necessary for your vacation…
back out on the trail…the weight that so easily pulled me down was gone. the trail ahead opened to new possibilities. the topography that once seemed so strenuous became a joy, and I danced up the trail like a young buck.
when the mud is so thick
and the world is so cold
look to the heavens
to that city of Gold,
your reward awaits you
for all those long nights
you prayed for a miracle
for wrongs to become rights,
for all those long seasons
when hope kept you from fear
and you walked in the grey-light
your angels were there near,
for God has been watching,
indeed, God has been true,
so keep your eyes to the heavens
until God sees you through.
He asked me if i was taking pictures of the backpack trail…
“Yes,” i said, scanning the map.
He studied something inside the posting board…where maps, rules and regulations, and various other government printed fodder suffocated, unable to breathe the moderate breeze skipping across the dock parking lot.
“I was looking for a trail map,” I admitted, though not in chronological, nor priority, order.
“You could say that.”
Quickly in the car, quickly down the drive, and out again to a table- picnic table- sitting at the edge of the lake. No trail here. No signs here. Only the feel of something greater…pulling at the tides of my heart. I sat. Alone with the sound of the waves, the wind, and a pounding in my head..
As when spring arrives suddenly, so the hardwoods faded across the water. The chill would come, and fires at this side would light the night with warmth. But none would ever be this warm again.
Looking behind me, my inquisitor saddled up like a pack animal, herding with four or five others, as they made their way for the far parking lot edge where the backpack trail resumed northward toward the lake’s end. They filed into the thicket, but like a run on sentence.
They vanished, just as a boat outfitted with senior citizens veered south, entering my camera view…
and like college students out for a weekend party, they squealed and exclaimed in the unintelligible language only a suddenly-going-senile crowd might understand.
timelessness washed over the shore, and over me, and I bathed in it, washed in it, and dried off in the wind. memory etched in my soul, it was time to move on. time to get back to work. more time to pursue the sweat of your brow, longing for another moment of timelessness, on the edge of something greater.
where the yellow tipped goldenrod take over the fields, and crickets invade where grasshoppers play, this hidden-from-the-road pond offers a respite from the late summer sun for many a creature. i do not venture so closely, since the cattail mud is not far from my boots. but when the white of winter freezes over the remains of fall, i will be there, curious and equally impressed, sneaking a glimpse…before it changes again.