Hiking Alone
Snow Geese coming in for a landingThere was one other car at the trailhead for Brace Mountain, in the Taconic Mountains that divide New York and Connecticut, then Massachusetts. From my car, the views down into the valley are wide, open fields filled with dry, half stocks of corn. It was a warmish late fall day, but I still had on a hat and gloves; I was ready for the cold. There was no trail register, but a sign told me that the trail ahead, at least for the next .2 miles, is steep. Hard. The sign made me smile.
I had wandered my way eastward to this trailhead, stopping at one of my favorite farms to admire flocks of Snow Geese coming in for whatever leftover corn they can find on their route south. Since I didn't know when or if I was going to hike this trail, I haven't let anyone know I'm out here. I know this is not smart--you should always let someone know your hiking plan. But I'm feeling cut loose in many ways, so I'm out here, wanting my inner and outer worlds to align.
It's a strange feeling, this sense of being unaccounted for. It’s not that there is no one to care; it’s that no one is allowed to care. I want to feel alone. This could lead to a sense of loneliness or alternatively, to a slight euphoria, the elation of freedom. It's the later feeling that took hold as I started up the steep trail.
Foraged Thanksgiving
The beautiful places foraging takes me--Provincetown The kid, framed by two middle-aged men holding rifles, held the pheasant in his arms. The body of the limp bird flapped against the boy's arms and he smiled, proud of the pheasant. The sun was low on the horizon, the ocean only a distant blue smear. Vast dunes spread before us.
"Thanksgiving dinner?" I asked.
They smiled.
I could feel the elation of the hunt, the story of how they got this bird early on Thanksgiving day. I wanted to ask who was going to pluck the bird, clean it and cook it. There were a lot of soft brown feathers to deal with. For a moment I was jealous of the bird. Pheasant tastes delicious. But I knew I wouldn't be capable of killing the bird. And this day was devoted to eating only food we had gathered ourselves.
River Time
Kate and Hudson River Dog NeenaWe left from the Troy Dam later than planned. High tide was at 9, and by 11 we had already missed two precious hours of the ebb current. On the Hudson, the tides become a tyrant, not letting you stop or rest or eat. You go with those six hours, rest later. Or that's what you do if you want to travel. By noon, when we made our first gravelly stop, the roar of Albany traffic in the background, I knew we were not making miles. This was a trip about river time.
We included Merle, who at age 72 teaches Outward Bound courses, has a shock of curly gray-white hair and a calm steady demeanor; Kate on her pedal boat, after shoulder surgery, long legs shoving south; and me, on a short fall break from teaching, desperate not to think about faculty meetings. The most important team member, however, was Neena, a pint sized dog, which Kate had just rescued. This was Neena’s river baptism. To keep her happy--and who doesn't want to keep a dog happy--we stopped every hour to stretch and pee and marvel over how slowly we were moving.