“I lost my routine woods circuit when I moved. What I mean by that, is the place I knew, like the back of my hand. It wasn’t really anyone else’s discovery; maybe parts of it, but not the in-depth way I had of going about it. I had to earn it, and learn it, and put all the pieces together, using a map, and hearsay, from the elders who used to summer there, who owned a lot of it, or did, until it was too expensive to pay taxes on all of it, & they sold off some, for deer camps. I got lost up there, more than once. Got scared, got panicky even, backtracking at twilight, disappointed that I was unable to break the code. My dogs kept me sane. I knew I wouldn’t perish, as long as their tails were wagging, noses sniffing, their sleek bodies darting between downed trees, and odd rock formations, remembering what I could not, about where we were. I did the loop in terrible conditions, as a kind of personal challenge, once my mastery of the topography was good enough. In summer, slashing at raspberry canes overgrown on what had once been a viable path, soon to be gone. In winter, teaching myself how to not crash and injure myself, where the way went precipitously down. Never a great skier, but an able explorer, I expanded my understanding, through avoidance of harsh terrain. I found many, many ways, to “go around”. This has stayed with me, this cogent life lesson. When one thing runs out, there is always more, elsewhere. One has merely to look. On the days when I felt fully in my physical powers, I would dare a crazy descent, using muscle to stop myself from dying, or wits, to outwit the obstacles. I would venture to say, that through sheer stick-to-it willful obstinance, I became unofficial caretaker of a 200 acre wilderness. Not that I knew it at the time. But we become things, without meaning to, and that is a sobering fact. “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” Didn’t the Beatles pen that phrase? I wrote many stories about. being in those woods, thinking I might some day become worthy to be their steward, if only I could make enough trips, have enough small disasters, witness enough inclement weather at their heights, and suffer enough slogging, slow, snow-sticking, mud-licking treks, at their lowest. Like the day I had the wrong ski wax, and had to remove my skis in thigh deep snow, & trudge two miles out. Or the day I came down, exhausted, but relieved to be back on the flat 4th class road, only to discover nearly impassable drifts up to my armpits. In those years, if I did carry a phone, it was dead from cold by then. I got in the habit of letting one friend know I was going out, and email when I got back, assuming I did. I used to imagine how that might play out. Bill, nearby, with a snow machine. The calm phone call, made by my deer hunter friend, who would not be inclined to create a false sense of emergency, to Bill. The discussion about what could be done in the dark. Well, we never went there. I did the same, for my youngest daughter’s father, when he was still horse logging, alone. He’d leave a phone message in the morning, saying he was going out. I’d forget about it, until about 5 pm. One time, he didn’t call. I let it sit inside, as the woods got murky. I didn’t want to be a nervous Nelly. Maybe I could feel if there was trouble, maybe I could just stay home. But in the end, I scraped the ice off the car, and drove to where I thought he was working. The logging roads were a maze of confusion for me. I didn’t know which way to go. I was not enjoying the exercise, at all. I’d start up one track, and then double back, thinking there were no clear signs, and no use in my being caught up in a woods I didn’t really know. It’s hard to know how much to intervene, or when to assume the worst has befallen a loved one. No right answers here. My horse logger turned out to be home stoking his fire, stirring up some chow. Guess I should have checked his house first. But, I dunno. It’s all right to go out on behalf of someone, with limited information. Better than not. I’m glad I did. I figured out something about how fallible our human systems are. And how unbelievably beautiful, and natural, and soul building, each and every debacle can be.”
