What’s marvelous about summer life in the
north is the weather, of course. As our kinfolk collectively bake south of us, we
stay cool. Even after some warm days here, the promise of relief is always just
days away. We know the Great Lakes will soon send crisp winds ashore.
So, this morning, I write at a
table outside. Last week was warm. Today, it’s only mid-July, but it seems to
sniff of Fall. It helps that a northwest breeze rustles the trees, and the sky’s
dark-rimmed clouds seem laden with rain. Also, acorns are falling, bouncing off
keyboard and head, making the wakeup coffee less necessary.
I promised myself last night that I
would write of the trails this morning. Trails are also what’s marvelous up
here. There are so many, so close.
So … there was a moment early last
week when I’d ventured out, seeking relief from the office, to a favored hiking
spot. The trail is a single track – rooty and rocky, lined with tall trees,
mainly, but tall grasses in its meadow spots. It follows closely a
crystal-clear river of maybe 4-foot depth and 50-foot width.
I planned to put in four miles of
hiking or so. It was uneventful, to the extent that striding through Nature’s
deep-north majesty can seem routine. That changed at the bend in the river. I’d
hiked down to the valley, at the west end, and followed the river’s route east for
about a mile. The trail then reached a fork. The path most traveled went
straight; the narrower path, almost obscured by grass, went to the right.
The river here is horseshoe-shaped,
looping south before returning north. The straight path cuts across the meadow
at the horseshoe’s base. The trail turning right follows hard along the river’s
loop, meeting up again with the main path.
Hearing Frost’s whisper – “I took
the one less traveled by” – I hung right.
The tall grass was still damp from
the night, swaying slightly, heavily, in the breeze; my hiking poles shook the
dew loose, dampening my boots. White and yellow wildflowers hovered above the grass,
glistening as I glided by. The river’s quiet rush could be heard now, the high
waters from yesterday’s rain splashing over tree fall that had floated downriver
from the nearby woods.
A meadow trail is much different
from a forested one. The latter, at least up here, promises not just roots and
rocks but lots of ups and downs, twists and turns, and the occasional limb
across it. You must look at your feet as much as you look up to avoid the
stubbed toe or twisted ankle. I know of hikers, myself included, who grow so
fixated with the ground that they miss seeing the low-hanging branch at eye level. The
sound you hear is the thump of a ripe melon.
In the meadow, though, the path
smooths and straightens, and your sight is set free. It seems, at least for me,
that this is when my mind truly absorbs the splendor of this place … this place
called Up North; now, after seven years, also our place.
As I looked up, the sun was just
breaking over the ridge; pines, oaks, maples, and birches lined the river’s
south bank, their leaves and branches dancing in the fresh shadows. The river’s
silver top moved by swiftly … a flowing, glass ribbon. Just above the trees
flew a hawk – silhouetted, likely a red-tailed – swooping north, then south,
scouting for prey, or perhaps just enjoying the winds of the morning.
As I turned along the southern-most
point of the loop, feeling the sun’s embrace, there came that moment
– the moment of clarity that we all seek but seems so elusive when in Nature. Seeing
the hawk soar, hearing the river’s rush, breathing in the deep freshness of
grass and flower, gathering all of those senses into one split, teeming second,
my heart was filled to the top, ready to burst. Out tumbled my own whisper, a
plea, I suppose. “Could this ever be my Heaven? Just like this?”
I remember a few years ago, when
two hiking buddies and I were nearing the end of a grueling, 10-day, 140-mile
backpacking trip along Lake Superior. I asked the gents – who were, like me, nearly
exhausted on this ninth day – why we hiked. Our answers ranged from “Because we
still can” to “Because of the challenge.” I offered instead that, because of the
remoteness, we get to see what most others cannot.
My reason now seems selfish.
Today, though, I think we hike for
moments like this bend in the river. When, during these tumultuous, confusing
days of tenacious virus and sour politics and human frailties, what’s beautiful
and righteous and perfect in Nature can split your mind wide and let the good
flood in.
This week, daughter Meghan,
son-in-law Eric, and grandson Orion arrive for a five-week stay. Like us,
they’re among the lucky ones who can still work safely, remotely. Of course,
for 2-year-old Orion, life is all play. And so, these five weeks will be, for
Cindy and me, a welcome distraction from the worries of work and the world. We
know Orion will fill our life with his innocence and antics and joy of
discovery. And the occasional full diaper.
I suspect Orion’s sense of place is
not quite honed yet. He’s been here before, but his most solid memories of us and
Chandler Lake are likely of the more-recent, Facetime kind. So, it will be sweet to see him truly come to know this place, now that his senses are at
full tilt.
For Meghan and Eric, though, it is Michigan
memories that are astir. Up from Texas, they’ve long looked forward to this Up
North refresher. Both trail hounds, they will venture off, I’m sure, along some
of the same paths I’ve traveled.
But they also may find ones I’ve
not yet discovered – the ones “less traveled by.”
Maybe even along bendy rivers less known.
Maybe their Heaven ... "just like this?"
