“We zig zagged our way, one in snow shoes, one in boots, up a logging road, then a gully, skirting a sugar bush, to where it leveled off, and the view turned from south facing to north. I do like to be high on a hill. I wrote a song in the 80s about being high on a hill, where “thoughts of town reveal a silly vaudeville”. So here we were, still climbing, instinctively, to place our feet on sacred ground. Nothing too unusual, for a Vermonter. And, as always, there was a plank crossing, and some confusion about how far it would be, should we try to make the road. It didn’t seem wise, though admiring the woods, it did look tempting. These places really, no one goes, mostly. And I felt confident, we’d be able to stumble out into familiar territory eventually, just not maybe by dinner. We both stood still, looking up at the impossible view. “The peaks are deceptive”, she said. “It’s not really a good measure”. The dog, named Soul, had just disappeared down another game path. “He knows”, she said. “Let’s follow him”, I said. So we did, mostly. When you’re hanging onto saplings to avoid falling a good ways & also lying in the snow where you just fell, when the hilarity of nature fills your belly, and the sun warms your cheek, well, then, higher consciousness is all about nothing. Nothing, but this. She photographed the glitter, and a green orb, while I documented a few trees, and dramatic reaches of land. And going down, after a reverential, non-denominational sermon about pine cones, blessed by the croak of a raven, she chattered on about the wonders we were experiencing, while I noticed my footing to be somewhat off, and fell behind. Uh, no big deal but ... what happened to my sawtooth metal grips? She had snow pants, and this was smart because with nylon, you can sit down when the going gets rough, and leave a sort of a bobsled run in your wake, thanks to your “behind”. “Hey” I called out, and somehow, she heard me. “There’s something on my ... can you take a look ... “ and I lifted my bear claw, which she knelt to look at. This elicited an even bigger laugh from her, and she was clearly losing focus on helping me, rolling around like she was, in the snow. “It’s a ... a... basketball! “ I blurted out. For indeed, my snow shoe strap had somehow collected a huge ball of ice, that I’d been stepping on for the last half hour. I don’t really notice stuff. I mean, a lot of the time. That floating to avoid feeling a lump, or to dream of flying, to get over mountains, all the while having to trudge along without proper provisions, a way of travel in a different way, it’s a curse. And if and when you feel you’re not on anyone’s map, the feet can still move, while the spirit soars.”
