“The route taken is often a juncture, where trusted maps and impulse collide. You can only know what you know, and then hidden things pull with a force. A grey, nothing morning, with no plan in sight, can be the best time to set out on an adventure. Tempted to do the same things, day in, day out, and yet. The timeline is limited, or at least, uncertain. So why not. Gas in the truck, no pressing issues. After a grueling week of taking care of business, I feel enough un-obligated, to veer west into the woods. I’ve scouted in advance: the metal gate, the tracts of vacant ownership of lands, a rugged stream and boundaries. Only a small section to bush-whack. And, as always, the light. New to exploring before noon, I can’t wait to see the forest draped with fog. It’s perfect: a well placed pull off, to park and a back road too muddy for tourists, or locals worried about their car’s hanging parts. My heart skips a beat to slip between post and tree, unseen, then put my feet to work. The gravel drive isn’t long, but I know which direction to go, passing a locked farm pump, and tilting outhouse. There’s a little wood stacked in a make-shift rack, and black plastic pipe strewn around, on the ground, which I hop over, and then fallen logs, and pits attached to huge fallen pines. I can see glimpses of a hay field, which I’ll keep to my right. The going is wet. Soon blue markings, indicate my crossing over into lumber company holdings. In my mind, I know I’ll hit the brook, eventually. And I do hear it, after 15 minutes or so, of slogging. It’s a magical sound. I needn’t worry about any disorientation, once I hit my mark. I’m just not sure what kind of terrain I’ll find, on my journey up hill, heading up South Mountain, a designated wilderness. It’s a dripping biome. Every branch is holding the fresh drops of spring. Almost nothing green is coming up yet, if you don’t count the ferns that hid their color, under snow all winter. As the land drops away, i begin to see huge boulders, like dinosaur eggs. I’m glad for my rubber boots, as I walk into the water, going back and forth across the water, as needed, adjusting my path, trying to find the least awful ascent. I’m not full of energy yet, so i slow down, to take it all in. It would fine to just listen here, and smell things, for a good half hour. That seems like what anyone needs, if they’re dragging. I have insulated overalls, so sitting on something soggy, like moss, is not a big deal. Side streams come burbling, out of nowhere, and require some fancy footwork, to continue. I like it here, but I’m as always, becoming skeptical of my map reading skills. I’m really on a quest to find a particular logging road, so well defined by air that Google can see it. But I’m a mere mortal, seeing mostly an excess of trees, many gnarled and old, or dead, and a wasteland of sorts, beautiful though it may be. Maybe I should turn back. I’ve accomplished one or two objectives already. But the old road. I know its out here, and it climbs almost to North Pond. There are few ways in, using wits, not GPS. I’d like to touch the skirt of it, so I won’t be so stupid next time i try this approach. Whatever. I stop again, to look at things, and take photos. Just a little further. I have nothing to lose. I pick myself up off a log, and push on. The water is mesmerizing, in these places. You go into a time warp, guaranteed. You look up, always scanning for changes. And I finally see colors, different tans, and browns, and different spacing, and different light. I’ve made it to a clear cut. Damn, I’m sick of the rough mess out here. But I’m there. I see the puffed up, slash strewn, thawed out machine track, which is nearly impassable. Oh, but I’m proud to have made it. I do know where I am. Suddenly, it darkens, or is it a trick of the eye? The sky has dropped a thick cloud into the cathedral of the fallen. The tallest, mightiest, noblest left standing, are, none-the-less, forming a guard. This is why we can rest in the forest, despite huge swaths of destruction, that shout in a language that is unimaginably coarse. Power still oozes from all jagged stumps, and saw-dust laden leaf litter, and the massive earth beneath, which is a womb. It won’t go away. But I must go. They’ve built me a bridge, which I take, and turn my body east, downhill now, towards home.”
