A Trail Through the Forest

When I look into country where few footsteps have gone, I think of ways to get inside those places. Undisturbed, these hills and forests and streams lie outside the busy approaches of man. They have a different feeling from overworked trails and scenic routes. Here, only a slight hint of human activity survives in the fullness of the vegetation, but pathways do exist here and even in the thickest of woods: animals make trails that bring them to places of water and food, of shelter and safety; they make their way without a lot of struggle too, generation after generation. I shall follow the animal ways, and once I enter the green-lit forest, steer around the bands of alder, following clearings of grasses and fern fields instead. Even so, in order to get across the hollows and draws, thick with alder, means bending and crawling, bumps and bruises. As I peer through the rolling terrain I imagine that the shapes of the dense areas of alder might be a line or a shape drawn over the shifting topography of hills. Even along the stream are fringe areas of thick alder. So, instead of fighting my way through the barrier of shrubbery, I head up onto the ridges, looking for clearings of ferns and plants. This is also where the animal trails can be found. Here, the view is more open, where I can see the way ahead, as well as a means to descend to the stream. On the ridges the it is more airy, more open, more safe in travel, and better than stumbling through the alder and deadfall of the lower areas. Meanwhile, the trail climbs as the ridge lines get higher, deeper into the enfolded hills that surround the stream. Today the sky is a thin veil of forest fire smoke and the blue shapes of distant hills are colored in haze. I can even smell the smoke as it is carried on the breeze. So far, the wind has kept the worst of the smoke away from here. I just hope the wind stays in the right direction. As I work my way further up the hill, I find in places more open to the light, patches of ripe blueberries. Stopping and bending down, always mindfull of what is happening around me, I gobble up handfulls of the tart tasting fruit. Other patches, deeper in the woods, are still green-white. No wonder the trail leads here. Soon, I reach a point where I decide to descend to the stream, mostly because the ridge is leading away from where I want to go. This means some alder exerise, while looking for openings through the trees and shrubbery leading to the stream. But once I get passed this gauntlet of narrowed spaces, the next trail is in or along stream. I like this part of the trip ( but not the slippery rocks), because the coolness of the water keeps both man and beast from overheating. I feel like I'm in a continual state of bathing, water lapping up to my thighs, massaging the tired muscles. I know later, on the return, that some bushwhacking waits me too. But the future is hardly in my mind as I fish and continue upwards to the large pools of greens and light browns. I find on the granite bars flowers blooming in radiant pinks and yellows and blues. Here I stop, take off pack and gear, and have lunch. Above me is a small pool where a family of Merganzers paddle away; below, another view of a corner leading into small drop pools of bubbling foam and sound. For the moment, the sound and coolness of water spreads across my mind like a reverie; and as I move in this trail of water, around each turn in the stream, I feel even more that a new trail of meaning has opened up inside of me.