“The rivers are gushing, still blending snow melt seamlessly with rock & debris. Trees, so numerous we hardly notice them, so still when we look, so active when we are gone, have held the winter up in the forest, and supported life under all that weather. Humans may find their way, or be lost here, but somehow, its the trees that continue to define our pathways, and protect our travels, or beguile us to wander, where perhaps we shouldn’t go. I’m not sure why this place, named Cooley Glen, has evaded me for years of my living nearby, or allowed my passing over its crooked bridges in a hurry, to get somewhere else. The things we create are just imitations, or revelations, of the mightier sentries, of nature, such as these. As far as boundaries go, it’s been left up to water, to forge our byways for us, and bring us into some habitable relationship, with the lands we call home. And as we crave portals, being stuck in our mire, the lessons of roaming will never be wrong. Was I naive to search, as a younger version of myself, for doors, in the woods? Before life swept me into more versions of myself, and many, many seeming dead ends. It presses on me still, this quest to find an outlet, which has been whittled down to divinations, akin to dowsers sticks, and treasure maps. And rather than plunging into digital fantasy, place my feet on solid ground, a mystery play of sticks and stones. Hard evidence remains, of those who have gone before me. Trail builders, who camped & made fires, merely so they could move boulders again, and again, and make sturdier houses, so as to remember where they’d put down a stake. For me, this is a gift, and as my still nimble limbs climb ably over logs, I know I won’t always be able to walk this freely. Life is timed, and charged with fate. If I wanted to swing a pick ax, if I relished the idea of conquering a series of mountain passes, this would not be my chance to do so. What is clear, is that knowing my compass point, and reading it well, will get me closer to the spirit of my heart’s desire, drawing near. Not confused any longer, about who might save me, as that is mercurial, at best, but how I might best utilize my own dead reckoning, as its called, to recalculate to a more blessed route, more filled with a quieting of mind and body. Let the passion stay wild, while the earthly pursuits become less interesting; let the fascination with suffering be harnessed only, to serve others in need. On this path we walk today, not much sun, and a cold, brisk reminder of how harsh conditions have been. Discovering fresh moose tracks, and a peak we’d never seen before, looming above us, the nuances of our future become apparent. It may not be possible to go the distance, not today. Better to turn back with new knowledge, than to flounder into darkness just to achieve some illusory goal. Being a fool again, for what, holds no allure. I’d rather be real, then pretend, which takes so much effort. My companion has fished and hunted the mountains as a way of life. That’s all I can attribute to how good it feels, to run like salmon, upstream, with him, as a pair. We’ve been doing it now, for some years. And though we both had to comment that we are no longer as spry as we were, the glint in the water mesmerizes us to no words, and that is a world I believe in.”
