“The woods are lovely,
dark and deep.”
Robert Frost
On Saturday, Michael and I went out on the trail with a packed lunch—a box of guacamole, some cucumber sticks, the blackest olives and a bit of chicken. We had a plan or rather, I had a plan—to repeat my birthday walk, only together. My step is easiest when walking with Michael, and when the trail gets wide we go side by side which is one of life’s finest pleasures.
I asked if one day he’d walk the barely-trails that the animals have made not for us but for themselves. We’d need to wear long pants to save us from the poison oak.
“Here’s one,” I said pointing off to the right shoulder of Iris Trail. But it was changed, wider than it had been a few days before and clearly not made by animals but by a human’s machine. We left our plan behind and turned right, going down, down, down. The trail narrowed; we continued.
Do you know the scene in C. S. Lewis’s book The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, where the children reach into a coat closet, step inside and begin walking, past where the back of the closet was, till snow is beneath their feet and the scratching against their faces is no longer from coats but tree branches?
That’s how I felt. What I thought was the back tree-wall of the park was not a boundary at all, but a gateway to the deeper woods. To hold that awareness, I had to kind of turn my head around—my world had just grown larger. This finding made me immoderately happy. Nothing other than sudden honesty in our political system; a return of my dead mother, only sober; or maybe a book deal, could have been as good.
The path climbed a bit, came to a clearing and where a low-to-the-ground, homemade trail marker gave us choices. The left-hand trail was unidentified, but later I found it goes to a place called Roach Canyon. (I can only imagine what I’ll find there!) Going forward would take us to Pacific Meadow and Del Mesa or we could turn around and go back to Jacks Peak. Michael left it up to me, and, unsurprisingly, I was compelled forward.
Michael and I may walk together but we’re never really on the same path.
“We’re much lower now. Not too many people take this trail,” said Michael.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“There are oaks and not pines here,” he said. “The layers of oak leaves wouldn’t be so thick if the path were well-traveled.”
God bless my boy scout! See why I feel safe walking with him? My attention had been taken by the pattern of the fallen, pale oak leaves. The crunching sound they made under our feet took me a long way back to another walk. But I hadn’t come to a conclusion about it. I’d been too entranced by color, shape, texture and the nearness of the oak tree branches to think beyond my senses and memory. Michael sees the large picture while I’m focused on the small one.
We kept going and going, walking south and west till we could almost see the mouth of Carmel Valley. That the ocean was nearby we could feel on our faces. I was determined to know where the trail ended, didn’t concern myself with the fact that the return would be one long hill home.
A cyclone fence, as if dropped down by aliens in front of us, seemed to bar our way till we looked more closely and found a path to the left, caught sight of a water tank below. Mr. Observation whispered, “Shhh.” I looked down to see a man in one of those fancy sun-protection hats walking up the trail.
He was friendly, most people on the trail are, said we were at the edge of a retirement community that comes out, yes, onto Carmel Valley Road. When asked, he told us he was originally from Budapest, that he walked here often. Clearly he knew the park far better than I do. He claimed to be 86, but based on the way he loped up the hill ahead of us, I doubt it.
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Being impatient, easily bored or irritated can generate a lot of spine, my ancestors often said. When I was a kid, I could rarely find anyone to go walking with me because I didn't want to wait around while they made their preparations. It took too much time away from being somewhere as opposed to getting ready to go there. I learned to take off on my own without looking back except to keep track of what the weather might be up to. Not watching weather patterns can result in getting wet or cold where I come from, not a pleasant prospect if you're out hiking in the hills.
ReplyDeleteThe small town where I attended grade school afforded easy access to steep foothills which were reached by passing through orange groves and then onto pasture land that gradually sloped up the skirts of the hills. Later, when my family moved out of town and into the country, the hills were in my back yard. I could walk up the ranch's sandy utility road, or cut through the surrounding groves of oranges and be at the start of a hike in minutes. Shinnying under barbed wire fences to get from one place to another was a way of life and no one worried about trespassing; we just made sure our passages left no indicators of our having been there.
Forests and mountains were foreign territory, but appreciated as a result of having been brought up to look and listen carefully to one's surroundings. It would have been an odd experience to find myself lost in either environment, even at an early age. But it was always the hills that called me most strongly, and they still do. Whenever I went walking in them, it always excited me to be able to name several different kinds of plants or bird calls as they made themselves available to my eyes and ear. I took home small samples or verbal descriptors to my parents for the ones I didn't recognize and so learned how to keep track of and convey details that would teach me more about my surroundings or even save my life. If you know how to find shelter, food, and water, you can stay out in nature for a long time. If you don't know how to do these things, you die. I accepted these stark realities at an early age, not bothering to become frightened of being alone out in the great wide world I was allowed to wander, but keeping track of where I was and the conditions surrounding me. I've taken this reality everywhere I've traveled in the world, and it's "done me good."
Time has chipped away at some of the sharpness of youth, but it still feels good to keep a sharp peripheral view; see the foreground and the background and where you've come from so you'll know how to get back; listen; enjoy; be well and at ease with your natural surroundings.
I finally found my way to Patrice's blog, an adventure in itself. But reading the last 6 entries is the best adventure of all and well worth finding my way here. Patrice IS an adventure. I am moved and inspired by her insights, sensibilities and conversations. And to find myself laughing out loud on top of it because of her wonderful wit is pure delight.
ReplyDeleteI am following you Patrice...Thanks for sharing the trail, Alisa
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ReplyDeleteWhat happened with the guacamole?
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