“A place so odd, you stop to absorb what’s not right about it, disconcerting & pleasurable all at once. Part gived-up county highway, cow path, doctored logging route or a compromise between them. Then the question: why are you been obsessed with it? There’s no real answer. These coordinates jumped off the map recently, but intuitively, I’ve been reading this quadrant, for way longer. It’s a shame to have to think about game cams, and residential security systems, when all you want is access to a wilderness no one really cares about. Oh, maybe one out-of-state landowner cares, or “Vermont” cares or a hunter you know considers it noteworthy. Maybe a dedicated back country skier understands a portion of it worth, a significant portion. But, in general, no one cares. But “someone” did, because I have clues that draw me further in. I’m stunned, honestly, to feel the lay of the land, after so much yearning. Years of yearning. Is that a thing? Knowing something is there, worth knowing. And finally, getting down to it. That it might take so long to achieve a small goal, is both laudable and laughable. Building in the heart, a narrative of longing, that is barely satisfied upon consummation. No, this is just another beginning, where longing has fallen short, yet done its job of delivering us to the feet of what we thought we wanted. I do believe in the holy undertaking of penetration. Each mystery must be unveiled, as we clamber through the boulder fields of ignorance, blind as baby mice, ever focused towards some unidentified destination. I’m so happy to encounter flat, grass avenues on the first leg of this journey. For once, it seems, someone has done the heavy lifting for me. The gray, lifeless sky. devoid of blue or cumulous loft, is cover, pushing us deep into the territory. A surprise bench overlooking wet meadows, invites us to sit, & I’m transferring map knowledge to real sedge and cedar. I feel what I’ll do going forward, next trip. Run the rim of the conifers, in search of ponds I’ve seen represented on paper, land locked, parcels locked inside the vast, unknowable National Forest. I’m sorry, but it’s true. They’ve cordoned off tracts, and tried to make them unfriendly. All the more reason, to be open to love. On the curved trajectory of an upward leaning forest, I can sense the manipulations of recent men. I love what I feel, in the swell of lost farmland. So far off the track, that it isn’t registered but only once, where no one goes. Here, in early spring, before leaves dare to make notice, a bare, silent burden is about to be shed. The ungodly panorama of too many presidential mountains encircles encumbered miles, where farmers once toiled. It’s a huge, heavy burden, when so many peaks get their names from false gods. Oh, sure, some of them mighty men and able. But many more, just morons, who’s misdeeds migrated to posters, and then into newsprint. Think about it now, if you will, and consider the actors. Ten to one, they are as horrified by their influence as we are. But it’s too late to stop the machine. Or is it. By all standards, the twists we take, and where we end up in the embrace of handsome small hills, it’s the sweetest reward. Given glimpses, and profiles, into something older, not exactly “old growth” but close, we press on, invigorated and anxious to meet our last turn. Then suddenly, the path hits a boundary, conjoined with a geometric cut. Our descent is rapid. We land on the New Haven (River), just about where we’d thought we would. Questions still unsettle my sleep. I spent about two hours in the middle of the night on Google Earth. Who could blame me. What the *f - there are many strange anomalies hanging around these federal lands. Guess I’ll just pick up where I left off, god willing, and if the creeks don’t rise.”
