“He took me to his river spot, just before the Festival of Fools. Certain woods & paths going down to water, have fairies, more than usual. I felt their eyes, upon me, or maybe it was the cairns he’d built, using stones from the forest floor, that fit to each other, with an eerie ease. They seemed to grow, out of humus, and leaf litter, then appear without warning. On this hot, steamy summer’s day, a sudden chill went up my spine, not unwelcome. He smiled. A smile that could warm the dank earth without trying. We descended slowly, into the dell, following a footpath until the way opened out onto a grassy riverbank. He pointed out signs of recent flooding. Where the picnic table had been, that washed away; the Adirondack chairs, also gone. There was a new beach, of round rocks, and gravel, jutting mildly into the cool flow; one lone chair, dropped, perfectly upright & downstream, as if placed by decorator gremlins. The cabin, perched higher at treeline, stood unperturbed & erect, smelling of raw lumber, still, and camp life, and solitude. What a work of art nature makes, with artful man. “Do you bushwhack?” he casually asked? I always get unnerved by this question, regardless of who is asking it. There is generally an agenda afoot, of some indeterminate nature. “Well ... “ I paused, unable to explain at one go, my adventures off piste. I wanted to say “maybe”, but that didn’t quite capture it. “I think it’s this way,” he continued. We seemed now to be traveling as deer might, searching for a meadow, one reputedly “up there”. I thought about poison ivy, and my bare ankles. But, not one to put a damper on things, I followed, dutifully. The not-so-gentle rise of land leading us further into fairy kingdom, did intrigue. Within mere minutes, enormous trees began to signal entry, and I knew we would arrive. Perhaps once an old farmstead, or a private outpost for pirates, the glade opened up, as the echoing cry of a crow, soon fell silent. We stood, and let the feeling of the place, rush in, like the pin prick, on a treasure map. “The other cabin could go here,” he said, gesturing to a slight flattening, a precipice, and a shaded view of distant mountains. I imagined myself, a tree-house dweller, surveying all of creation, from this very specific node. I imagined snow, filling crevice & hole, hiding animal doors and the scurrying of tiny feet; branches loaded to capacity, cracking in a wild wind. Then, of my own solitude, and longing for human comfort. For me, most things return to winter, in my mind, and in my heart. Whether that’s a comforting view, as seen from the hearth of a roaring fire, or a bleak, unprotected one, depends on the day. I’ve know both, and will continue to be wary in my open-hearted way, so that no opportunity should go to waste, or worse yet, make me lose my way.”
