“I guess I couldn’t leave well enough alone, so after driving four miles up a forest road into the Green Mountain National Forest, to a dead end parking space, I got out of the truck. I’d expected more, maybe a ranger hut for paying camping fees or a spigot. But no. It was a nothing arrival, to a walking bridge, then a trail head, and three options for going further into the woods. I thought to myself, I’ll just take a quick look-see. Grabbing my camera bag, I clomped down the hill, in clogs and crossed the rushing water, to find out what was around the bend. One thing led to another, as so often happens. One can get drunk, on spring ephemerals, and lose track of time. I’d seen a sign back somewhere, indicating a rustic shelter only a mile out, and that seemed reasonable enough to shoot for. How long can a mile be? It’s only one. And coming back would be more downhill. It was in this manner that I rationalized my impromptu hike, finessed a charming stream crossing, and began to be annoyed with myself, as the trail grew steeper. However, as my elevation increased, so did the last flush of red trillium, trout lily and spring beauty being to appear in profusion. Even yellow violet. It seemed apparent that my deceased uncle was at my side, egging me on. He and I had braved grizzlies together in Glacier, which he loved to reenact with me, over an over, with pots and pans. So in some way, it felt easy to canonize him as the patron saint of my most ill-advised excursions into the wild. He was a devote Catholic, after all, and always, always joking. Ah, dear uncle. You deeply loved, the great outdoors, and met its greatness, with your greatness. But we do lose some leg power, as the decades roll on. Overjoyed to finally round the most sought-after bend in my mind, and the Sucker Brook shelter, I plopped myself down on the lip of the remote lean-to. Very clean, with a broom prominently, yet casually, propped by the door frame. I found the log book, and did some reading. This type of informal literature should be published, surely, and preserved before the paper rots. I was enamored of yesterday’s visitor, a hiker named “Nate” or “Nat”. His handwriting was marginal. He admitted, he did not quite feel “up to speed” with his physical conditioning. And yet, he’d run into “Phil”, which had some mysterious import. I was mesmerized by his trail eloquence. As I put pen to pad, I admit it was not easy to find my best script, as I leaned over the rough floor boards of the hut, trying to stabilize my hand. What to say? In the end, I confessed that my footwear had not been ideal. And that I was inclined to walk the mile back, barefoot. At least when stream walking, one can dip, and dry, on moss, and dry leaves. It was a happy stroll, back down the mountain, to hell with the Long Trail. I didn’t make it all the way up there. It was plenty high, for me, to walk among the most austere of beings, the stalwart tomes, or trees, of the upper forest. They have been standing in place, for a long, long time. I think we can learn a thing or to, traveling thru their lands. Lands wet, and rooted, stone strewn, and earthy. I stopped many times, to sit on stumps, or most decidedly, on the trail itself, in the dirt and loam; to rest, to line up photos, to peer at the sky, to size up the hills coming at me, from all directions. I would sleep here, on the soft, pulverized biology of the woods, if things were different, and I were a different animal. As it is, I’ve got to get home and go to work, tomorrow.”
