“The photo came up in my newsfeed, a snow-covered track, with trees on either side, and fields beyond. “I’ve been walking this road for 61 years”, it said. I felt both excited, and sad. Being reminded of how a road can grow close to a human, and provide stability, and longevity, on the one side... and on the other, a sinking sensation of loss. Knowing how a road can be a friend, but one we must leave behind. I was missing my old roads, today. Often called gived-up, or thrown up roads - every town has them, hidden past the dead end or no outlet signs. The ones I’ve known, have yet to be discovered by back-country skiers, despite the fact, they’ve long since been shut down, to ATVs, and machines. Of course, locals may still use them. I did. A kind of alternative Disney theme park, costing nothing but requiring complicit anonymity, as long as they remain off notice, or designated, on satellite maps. The patchwork that is our state, of private lands, state and federal lands, and in between lands, can’t be known without a little effort, and better yet, living in proximity to them. The longer the better. In our prime, my dogs and I followed our noses, and a few tattered pieces of pink surveyors tape, seeking to connect the dots. My family never saw me go, nor followed my photo log. But for me, it marks the huge period of my middle years, and how my time was spent, when I wasn’t working, or trying to be a good wife, and mother. It felt inside, like an obligation, to know the land. To understand how it had been carved out for human purposes, or left alone. This is still an enormous weight on my mind, and in my musculature, as I gauge what’s waiting for me, yet within my capacity, to explore. Perhaps, I feel tasked with what’s left over, and not done by others. Surely with modern tools of mapping, anyone, can go anywhere, with enough money and desire. But my places, have been unremarkable, and in that one way, they have met my wildest expectations, and come close to the extraordinary. What’s there can’t be separated from the experience of actually being there, dodging rocky outcroppings that were never able to be mowed, or managed, on skis that don’t do well in such terrain. Of gnarled apple trees, once a vital orchard for a family, & glimpses of distant peaks, preceding my plummeting descent into miles more, of dark woods. The not knowing exactly where I’d come out of it. I miss those discoveries, that became my daily mantra of sweat, and sometimes, fear. There are places, I’ve left behind. Now, reimagined as I am in a new decade of change, in an unfamiliar junket of fence lines, no trespassing postings and strict wilderness boundaries, I am looking for my doors. There are things to know here, and things to witness. There are gatekeepers, and people who think they own vast tracts of bear habitat, and clear, mountain water. But I will find my way in, to see the things I must see. If only to tell you, and myself, that our collective soul still resonates, beyond the markers.”
