A
few weeks ago, I went to Wilderness Park, where I walked a familiar path until
it led me to a strip pit, surrounded by steep slopes and dense trees.
There
were trails here that I’d never explored, mostly because they weren’t labeled
and seemed little more than wildlife trails, narrow and not clearly defined. I’d
debated whether I should take one, but there no signs to forbid it and I was in
a mood for something different.
The
path I chose was steep at first, as if to test me. I clambered up the slope and
found myself on a narrow ridge, alongside the same strip pit, a dark spot on that
cloudy day.
I
pressed on, fighting off tree branches that tried to tear at my face, my hat,
my jacket. The path had obviously not been traversed by a tall person recently,
so I had to push my way through. I kept going, bending the branches aside,
peering ahead to see where the path would take me. I wasn’t sure where I was or
where I was going, but I consoled myself with the thought that I need only turn
around to find my way back.
After
a while, I stopped, faced with a dilemma. The path continued straight ahead of
me, but there was another one breaking off to my left. I pondered. If I kept
going straight, I would have the same easy solution to find my way back, but I
might see something interesting. (It was January, though. There wouldn’t be
much.) The other path was a risk, but it did seem to meander back in the
general direction of the more familiar part of the park. It had already been
over twenty minutes since I’d left the original strip pit, and it would be a
walk of about ten or so minutes from there to my car. On such a gray and chilly
day, I decided to go back.
The
path on the left had several steep descents, testing me again. I had to take
care not to twist an ankle on a jutting tree root or wobbly rock, all while
still fending off the grasping tree branches. A few times I questioned whether
I was still on an actual trail, but there was just enough there for me to
believe in it.
After
I half-slid down another slope, I found myself in a ravine. For a moment, I
stood there and considered the fact that I didn’t think I’d ever been in a
ravine before. It seemed odd and exciting, as if I’d found myself in a Bradbury
story. As one would expect, it was shady and quiet, a dull brown bowl of dead
leaves and slumbering trees.
Once
the novelty wore off, I realized that I couldn’t see the path anymore. This
caused some concern, but not fear. I knew I’d gone far enough to be close to my
destination. It was simply a matter of finding a way to it.
I
stepped out farther into the ravine. There were no visible trails. As I looked
up the incline on the opposite side, though, I thought something about it
seemed familiar. I recalled a trail that leads beside a ravine and I wondered
if that might be it. Even if it wasn’t, the higher ground would give me a better
vantage point to see where I was.
Getting
up was not easy. The leaves wanted to slide underfoot and the ground was just
damp enough to offer little purchase. More than once I had to grab at a tree
trunk to halt my backward slide back into the ravine. I clambered and grasped,
determined to reach the top … and I finally made it.
I
stood there, panting and disheveled but smiling. I was on the trail I’d hoped
to find and it led straight back to my starting point. I looked down into the
ravine, which didn’t seem so forbidding from this height. It was quiet and
unbothered by humanity, biding its time until spring would bring it back to
life.
Then I turned away
and walked back toward my regular life.
