“The flower explosions of spring come late in the mountains, and some may miss them, for blinking. The word “ephemeral” has its roots here, among the trillium, spring beauties and trout lily. I might have missed them too, being preoccupied with various things, but for my weekly trip to the post office, most reliably accomplished on Saturday mornings (they close by noon). It’s rarely a premeditated decision, upon accruing my postal items and heading homeward, to turn my truck’s steering wheel towards the call of scenic viewing. Or snooping, as the case may be. What might be happening, on the western slopes, some call wilderness, this time of day, under threat of showers? It would burn on my mind, without a doubt, unless and until I found my place within the mystery, immediately. Though instructed not to carry loads, my ball joint would surely survive this tangent, to a remote parking lot, not far from where I had recently taken a jaunt, and discovered logging devastation deep in the woods. Not cold, not hot; why not poke around, at no cost? This is not like going to Disney World. No entry fee, and no one needs know where I am. I left the phone in the truck, thinking, the truck alone would signal my rough location, should I perish. I slipped off my leather clogs, and put on sneakers. A little wet for sneakers, but it would have to do. The first 50 feet of trail, mostly a pond, soon ended, and I had decisions to make. From here, just trackless land, and either up, or down. I visualized my topo map, from previous study. I should be able to get close to the top of the mountain, following the middle stream. I knew that much. The climb began, and I jumped awkwardly across the swift water. There would be no getting lost on this Saturday morning, not here, unless the stream ended. I flashed to my mental notes, taken on a sub-zero day a few months ago, in the same location. The terrain looked vaguely familiar: a sharp cut out of moss-covered boulders on one side, opposing tall hemlocks towering over a precipice, on the other. It was one step, at first, then as if I followed myself, more steps slowly began to define the route, reluctantly subservient to my boundless curiosity. I would reach the headwaters, whatever, or wherever, they were. At higher elevation, I veered off to the left, to avoid a rough area. The steepness was getting to me. Suddenly, the ghost of an old logging road appeared. This is a kind of joy, that is hard to explain, unless you have experienced it. But i have found that often, when following a stream bed into wild country, someone else has already tried it with a horse, or a machine, a few 20-30 yards off your track. I’d forgotten to look, but was lucky to stumble onto this rule of thumb, yet again. For a while, maybe ten minutes I had easier walking. Then, of course, it petered out. I was in a sort of a clearing, where a big old tree, lay on its side. Taking a sit-down, pants decidedly soaked as the showers turned to rain, it struck me that who I was as a child had been a clear indicator of who I would become. I compared what I’m still doing, in my most private moments, to what I’d fashioned as my work, at age 6. Turning rocks over with sticks, to see what’s under them. Shaking raindrops off branches. Daring mud to remove my shoes. Teetering precariously on slimy rocks, in a rush to jump. Grabbing saplings, rotted trunks, anything that might hold my weight. Peering into holes made in trees, that might be homes. Staring, incredulous, at the delicate petals, of flowers, then possibly, rashly, picking them. Slogging along in wet pants, and a sodden wool jacket, and a water-logged hat, that gets snagged by branches and slips down, over my eyes. I admit, I was not happy always. But this top I reach, after zig-zagging through a mess of alpine chaos, is oddly compelling. Finally, the downward motion of the endless forest cascade is quelled to a murky snake of leaf darkened water. I could follow it into Mordor, I think, but I will not. Not today. I traipse into the muck until I see what might be the end. The end of what today’s mystery will be. I have the whole way back, yet to go. At least its downhill. Reaching for a shot of wild viburnum, I almost lose my balance, and remind myself to stay low. I find logging trails, and lose them. But I know where I am, enough. I know where I am ... enough.”
