Digging Ferns
“I was the one with bad knees, not really first tier for expedition hiking. But the other gardener didn’t show up. So on a hot summer’s day, I signed up. I don’t turn down adventures. I grabbed my favorite shovel, a bucket and we hiked across the bridge and climbed the sloping meadow’s mown path to the forest. You might drive through Chelsea all the time between the tight hills, and think .. not much about what’s actually holding it all together. We crossed the tall weeds, and an ancient wall, to slip into the shadows. With a dog in tow, a few plastic trash bags, sights set on the elusive fern clump. Maiden Hair, to be specific, a delicate breed. Such loose, rich humus, tumbling over granite, over quartz, a rough covering for boulders and ledge, that we took to on foot, terrain more often viewed from a distance, tense, and crumbling, and old. But as with all wild areas, we found each crag crowned with miraculous vitality and stepping on it, & sliding backwards into it, we triumphantly mounted each plateau to face the next inexorable rise, quipping and joking, unable to stop, unable to resist. This is the amiable determination of the walking wounded, one foot forward following impossible deeds of survival, dead set on improved outcomes. Some know it, some don’t, but in the end the most informed swirl of influence moves the most formidable mountains. As where we dug and balanced precariously on the precipice, we were able to fill our trugs with self worth. Accompanied by a dog pulling hard on a rope, nearly upending all our well laid plans. Isn’t it always like this? Those we love come along yanking hard at the leash, nose first seeking exactly the same aim, but suddenly reluctant to cooperate. That same love conquers all.”