“I awake during the first snow, opening my eyes at dawn to white sludge on my skylight. I close my eyes, to feel it more deeply, and all its significance, ringing like church bells from a far distant abbey, across miles of sleep. Where had I just been? I recall a dream of chaos, slipping away, one of interiors and crowds, and singing & food service. It is a strange juxtaposition. Eventually, I pivot to an upright position, planting my feet firmly on the wooden floor, while the day brightens into whatever it is to be. Which piece of driftwood will I cling to? The fluidity of my consciousness seems to flow in two directions: towards the familiar, as well as the disconcerting. Perhaps this is best described as loneliness. Although nothing else has changed, I go through the motions of rising, with a sense that the day may be fraught with quandaries. I work efficiently through my list of chores, and paperwork, delaying breakfast until it’s seemly to have lunch instead, a much more interesting prospect thanks to last night’s leftovers. By noon, I remember I’ve forgotten to let the chickens out, to enjoy their free ranging habitat. I trudge out across the yard, turning my face upwards into a cold drizzle, to see the sky, and gauge the weather. “Chickens, chickens,” I call in a friendly voice, to alert them to my arrival. They don’t want to be shut in, and my relief at untwisting the twine fastener to their coop, is almost as joyous as their rush to be loose. They’ve evaded many crafty animals wanting to eat them, and that’s enough to boost my confidence. What else needs tended, fed, finagled, coaxed, even avoided, well ... that lies ahead. I’m excited to venture out on a trip to town: to pay bills, submit permit applications, and check for mail at the post office. My house is in order. I’m not sure why I decide to take a detour, on the way back. A forgotten apple orchard on one particular dirt road, has been catching my eye for a while. It might be the day to jump the fence. But it can be smarter to find a back way in. I don’t like being spotted on a public road doing something like that. The land is posted with a broad invitation to hikers; with written permission only, for hunters. However this one area has never been advertised, and its wire fencing is formidable, as if they expect no one to try. I have a plan, vaguely. I park my truck like a sightseer, then walk up to a track a ways down the road, I think will lead me right. But its rough, ugly, a raspberry infested place, at first. I don’t care. I can turn back. I have my toughest clothes on, and rubber boots. The path is not well delineated, but obviously an old logging road. I follow it straight up towards the mountain, with a sinking feeling. My instinct, is that I’ll need to bushwhack but I keep to the trail. It’s a dark, moody day in the woods, sometimes, the sun breaks out, and all the colored leaves of fall are like luminary lanterns, briefly. I don’t like this kind of hike, but I’d rather not get lost. So I stick with it until I’m tired, and then admit, pretty much, defeat. The coming down part is slippery. I see a prominent boulder, a deer path, and a yellow birch and that irks me. I probably should try veering north, just before I quit. And I do. Stumbling down into a mucky swamp, I unexpectedly see the green of the orchard. Now I’m onto it. I flail around, clamber over a bunch of fallen trees, and stop to ponder at an odd bit of construction, somehow planted in the pasture. Is that a geodesic dome? An abandoned hippie enclave? Once over the four strand, unelectrified fence, I stumble out into the open grass. What is it? I am so curious. I walk up and stare, and realize the structure is made of camouflage material. Funny, it looked so much like a sheep run in, or a tiny house. Walking up to it, I peer around and into an opening, a window of sorts, and suddenly the gleam of military metal hits my brain. “Whoa!” I say, stopping dead in my tracks. “What are you doing out here?” a voice says, still disembodied, for I’m not inclined to look any further into the tent. It’s not an unkind voice, but the silence of the cross-bow at tension has repelled me into an immediate, if not hasty retreat. “Just going for a walk”, I say, “have a good day!”, I add, in some kind of shock. It is fully my intention to become roots and mud, and stay that way. I haven’t forgotten the way out. Funny how a lesson learned in the woods will last you for a long, long time. Once back in my truck, I take a slow drive, in the wrong direction, eventually, pulling off again, as my nervous system readjusts. I execute a heroic maneuver, backing up into a hay field, without getting stuck. As always, the mountain does not disappoint.”
