“For ever day I live, I’d like another day, just to read. Once upon a time, I’ll have that luxury. Not now evidently. Driving home along the crooked roads & hills of Robert Frost’s old farm, I want closer to the book, I mean, I’m aching for it. But I’m not reading it. I’m still soaked in the mystery of a road called “Dragon Brook”, which I’ve turned onto. Map reading as a hobby can do this to you. And I know it in my mind, knew that it went only so far, then continued, as a track, or maybe less than a track. Half in mud, half in soft ice, my cleats are the best choice and they’re still in the truck. A little too small for my Muck boots, but I muscle them on, while in the driver’s seat, door swung open. The tip about doing random treks in the late afternoon, it’s dodgy. When the road diminishes its size, I start thinking “how far can I back up” because this is standard for off-roading. I’m glad enough to find a gate & turnout, bare minimum and I can park. I check my phone; unsurprisingly, there’s no service. I’m sort of grateful you can still go off radar & get lost. Not that I want to, but I want to. The topography imprint from my map study, looms large. It’s more fun than an app, to think for yourself. A couple hours left, of sunlight. Fair game, I guess. Sort of creepy out here, in Ripton. Mostly forest now, though back in Frost’s time, there was likely more pasture and open country. Now, a beaver meadow, spanning hundreds of acres, between this one incursive road, and the notch, filled with saplings and brush, and sharp, dark hills hemming in what left. The trick to old fashioned rambling, is that you can only walk so far in a day, in one direction, & double that, because you’re walking back out. Next time, you’ll try in from the other side, and try to make both rambles meet in the middle. In my case, earlier in the day, I’d attempted to go in from the north, finally gotten up my nerve, then had to back out. Exploring alone, sometimes, it irks me. I’m mad at myself, and mad at the world. I probably do need a gun rack. However, we shall see, sans gun rack, how a gentle soul may penetrate enemy lines. Building up an understanding for the lay of the land, is an art. And repetition, & perseverance, the key to that art. I love the rise & fall of my country. The keen, fenced edges, as well as the rough, unbridled rivers. I look up at the steep cliffs here, sort of deflated, but inspired. This is the guardianship, made real. You don’t just get in here, on a whim. You have to work for it and really want it, rather than toy with it. Which means failure. And disappointment. And admitting that the only thing that’s older than these hills, is likely something spiritual. I can feel it, in the waning light. It’s almost a cemetery of what’s not been spoken. These are important conversations, what we say in solitude to the sound of our feet. I can’t really tell you what’s beneath me. I only know it’s sad, and in need of healing. The silence in the woods is profound. Only one speaks on such a day, an owl, hooting repeatedly, as I make it back to the truck. I think at first it’s my friend teasing me like he used to, & that he’s here with me in the wilderness. Maybe, maybe not. True language never goes dark. But for some not-so-savory reasons, we can lapse in deep feeling, & grow apart.”
