Reflecting On A Wooded Walk

Just as I am wondering why I came to Bristol before moving along to another town, I take an afternoon hike in the woods. Along the road the wild mustard is blooming patches of golden yellow. The air is sweet and void of any unpleasant smells, making every breath effortless and deep. I walk along the crooked path, up steep grades on one side with a drop off to a chilly creek on the other. The dirt is damp and my boots dig in firmly. It feels good. There's a connection rejoined that's been seperated the past four years of my life. Even the sweat between my spine and backpack is comforting.


Along the slanted mountainside there's a covering of Trillium wildflowers. The pure white rising from it's green shade leaves pops out from the dead forrest floor. I see one flower and then suddenly they're scattered about like little creatures emerging from the earth to watch you walk along. They're not concerned for me or even worried about me. In fact, I can sense the grin they give. A grin partly because they're glad I've noticed them and partly because they are glad to be noticing me.


The hike takes me over and under fallen logs. In places I am able to use the exposed roots of a monsterous tree as stair steps down one side of a slope. I thank the tree as I catch my footing, one in front of the other. Around the time I get used to the quiet sound of the small creek running over mud and smooth rocks, the steady noise of falling water begins to take over. I can hear it before I see it. A small trail leads me to the fall's edge. It's a fifty or sixty foot drop, and my head and stomach swim at the same time as I take a peek over the edge. Not too close though. The stories of people falling over probably making the swimming feeling a little stronger. So, I begin the walk down to the foot of the falls and it comes into view. A sight not seen in person in a long time. The right rock wall has changed way less than I have. It's weathered stronger storms, been beaten by more sun, and stood stronger throughout. The water that's pouring over the edge of the rock wasn't just turned back on because I've returned. It's been running over the edge, non-stop, longer than anyone has known. That's a little overwhelming as I have made my way to the bottom. Life goes on and in different places, but this water fall has stayed the same. It's been abused by human traffic, threatened by summer droughts, and even worn away by that constant flow of water. But it is the same as when I last left it, over six years ago. I stand in the waters below and photograph it at multiple angles, capuring the beauty and power it's laying before me constantly.

I made way way off an overgrown path and sat for half an hour. Watching the other side of the creek. It was all woods. A tree half in bloom right next to a tree that looks like it might never have leaves again. Underneath those two is a redbud tree offering it's reddish/purplish blooms as a sure sign that winter has left. I wonder if the tall, bare trees look down on this smaller tree and breath a sigh of relief when they see those blooms. "Not long now", is what I imagine them saying. "Not long now, until we get our own set of summer clothes".

I sit and think. About a job. About a girl. About a city. About a god. About the woods. About the the tire someone threw into the creek upstream.

At lease a half an hour sitting in the woods alone should be required for every human. There's no artificial distraction. No automobile noises, no planes flying over, no signs flashing "urgent" messages, no people vying for your attention. It's just you, a stump, your thoughts, and a canopy of trees that protect those thoughts from escaping too quickly. You have no choice but to work through the thoughts that have been on the surface but pushed aside for entertainment. It hurts a little. It helps a little.
In all the thinking that's happening, you're there. As much as you refuse to be and might not want to be, you are there.


The walk back reveals another springtime party favor. About as low to the earth as you can get, the Jack-in-the-pulpit emerges. Brown stripes against a bright green field could very well be the inspiration for the latest color fashion trend. But it's been there long before New York fashion, thought of by someone and made pleasing to our senses. The purpose of this wildflower isn't known to me. Maybe it's a forrest spy? hiding underneath the pedal, the stamen watches hikers and squirells every day. reporting back to the earth who's traveling across her. Who is enjoying it, who is not. Maybe reporting the people who throw their beer bottle caps on the trails edge. Relaying the message to the tree roots, they bend slightly upward to trip the lousy caretaker and have him fall flat on his face for his misuse. Having spotted two or three of these little spies, I walk back to the car. I say my goodbyes to the trillium, and hear the fading roar of the falls as human interaction begins again.

Within a minutes time, I'm brought back to the distractions of travel. Driving, talking, and listening to music drown out what I just experienced. This will not be the last time I spend in the woods though. It's too simple to leave behind for six more years.