Getting Home

The walk in is all uphill. I have my place to park, at the bottom, and I usually climb over the gear-shift and out the passenger-side because of the blackberry canes. There's usually a session of readjusting my clothing and repacking my pack before I attempt the last three hundred vertical feet. It's not a technical climb, more a slog, for the first half I mostly just watch where my feet fall. We're careful not to improve the driveway until after the first curve, so it looks impossible from the road. After the upper culvert, it's not bad, except for the mud, during the freeze-and-thaw cycles. I always carry something in, tonight it was a half-gallon of orange juice and cream for my coffee. You make a list, It's not brain surgery. After the last hickory on the left, the understory clears out; I always stop there, and admire the view. It's the first place I can see across the hollow, and I'm always struck with the distances. After the last hickory, when the hollow opens out, every step becomes more clear, a certain play of light. I keep a set of crampons in the truck, and another pair at the house, same with walking sticks (aluminum broom handles, very good for poking at scat). I always carry a pack and I'm fixing to change over to a better, newer one that D gave me. My old army sack is completely worn out. I rarely hurry on the walk in, as there are roughly 25 events, or things, on any given day, that I'm keeping an eye on. There's wildlife, maybe the fox. There's a stump I can sit on, maybe two thirds of the way up, where I can roll a smoke if I'm watching something. I seem to watch things a lot. Remember, we are deep in the woods here, about as deep as you could be, east of the Mississippi, and except in extreme circumstances, there's almost always something going on. This time of year I can see so much further, half the year I live in a green cave. I love crows, they're usually around, and this is the season for Red-Headed and Pileated woodpeckers, which I always stop and watch. Anyone in decent shape can probably do the walk in five minutes, I take between ten and thirty, maybe averaging fifteen. I also keep an umbrella both places. The mud can be very bad, slick, sometimes deep; I often wear work boots and keep my shoes around my neck. I don't like to carry anything in my left hand, so I could break a fall. I've often thought, walking in, that I could well die on the driveway, B would find me, going in or going out, know immediately that it was me, and that I had died on the driveway. In deep snow, whoever breaks trail establishes the length of stride; I have gaiters, that I keep in a milk crate near the door, along with other weather specific apparatus. And of course, the walk in provides transition between one world and another. I'm always aware of this, when I shut the door of the truck and start hiking up hill, that my house is there, and I'll be there soon. I always think about where the various firewood and kindling piles stand, what I need to do first my next day off. I have to go in on Monday, because the shipper arrives with part of the Folk Art show, and hauls away most of "Wet Paint". Does that affect anything? I don't think so. I have a huge supply of food at the house; if I'm stuck in town, Kroger is right there. Unseasonably warm, from 25 to 55 in two days, the shock is almost too much. I poke the driveway with my stick and decide I can bring in drinking water tomorrow, or Monday, when I'll be in town anyway. I think tomorrow I'll just flop on the sofa and read. Did I mention I hate irregular verbs? A regulation assent requires confirmation, you have to sign the guest-book or something. It occasionally happens that I can't get to the top, have to turn back and return to town, not often, but it happens. I feel bad about myself for a few minutes then relish in the hot running water.