“The world is grey, a reminder that eyes can only do so much. They can’t make brighter that which lacks illumination, they don’t see well in the dark. But even on the murky days, one must set out. On this unlikely afternoon, flanked by storm clouds, I pulled into the pull off. A space defined by where snow’s been pushed, and where snow machine trails start. Not the weekend, not even the day after the weekend. Just the dull tail end of an unremarkable winter’s day, one foot in a boot, one foot out of a boot, trying to change into ski gear on the bumper of a dirty car. The ominous weight of heading into the woods, at an inopportune moment with no stars aligned, hangs heavy. Just an urge to see a beaver pond, and make it back before dark. Alone, uninterested in doing it with someone. The curves of the trail are familiar, however, in deep winter, snow has its moods. The sign for “Elliot” and the driveway are cabled off, with no recent tracks, fully telling its story of lost summer. White stuff’s been piling up. Out here, it’s all about a drive thru on sleds. The deadened theater of trees occasionally burbles with water, tinkling under ice. Sort of beyond our ken. Maybe it makes sense, not to linger in such a secretive world. Yet what I recall, still warms me. Red checked wool, seriously scary drop offs, and a funny nickname “Reiman’s Peak” dubbed onto the hill behind my final destination: the wilderness pond Jim knows better than I do, in these parts where he ran his beagles. The nearby Appalachian Trail crossing has had no takers. Which surprises me, though admittedly, it takes some gumption to get here. We got lost out here once when we first knew each other, but not seriously. I trusted & maybe because I had nothing to lose after so many years of disaster, heck it seemed like I was heading home to the promise of an unconditional welcome within, and I could hardly believe it. I recognized my soul family - well, that’s what you think, when you trust. Hey, sometimes, it’s true. Which is why you’re willing to abandon so much, just to find out. But like this squall, that kicked up 3/4s way into the trail, life may confound your team, send them floundering into the brush and sometimes even the best, will scatter, permanently. It’s one tragedy too many, for me. My time is better spent, then, praying while I move. The shush, shush of purchase & traction, thanking old tracks or, loudly cursing the ruts, that wreck an easy slide. It’s time, for me, to converse with those who impress. Get clearer as to whom I might be speaking in my various states of cold danger or isolated fear. Maybe you recite psalms or have a mantra, or refer to Mary Oliver, in a pinch. I’d say gamble on your “best of” and let the rubber hit the road. Trust your instincts. Gather yourself, like I did, at the obscure places you inhabit, and commit to doing more. More truth telling, if only to yourself. Start simple. Turn around at the beaver pond, as the squall is picking up, and blink into the gray, as all your beloved & familiar landmarks disappear. There will always be a new society, a new reality, waiting to receive you. Ski the way you came in, go back to your car and drive towards them, post haste. If you still have the keys.”
