The Woods

Ephemeral, the nature of things, soft greens and reds on the other side of the hollow. I took a long walk today, before the bugs and snakes get out. A light pack, couple of Balance bars and a bottle of water, the usual foam pad and magnifying glass, I can amuse myself for hours. There are these little lost hollows between the south ridges and the north ridges, you have to hike into them. Most of them have a spring, at their bottom, and flow, from the south, into the Ohio, and from the north into Ohio Brush Creek, which also flows into the Ohio, but many miles from here. I argued with Jenny that the drainage was dendritic, but she argued, correctly, as I've since found, that it's merely irregular. Came upon a spring today, I could probably find it again, where the water just bubbled out of the ground, cold and sweet. Climax oak and beech, no under story, and a lovely creek that wandered vaguely south. I wanted to make a large circle, cross Upper Twin, and come out over on Mackletree, so I needed to head west, all by dead reckoning, and I did hit Mackletree, within a thousand feet of where I thought I might. Looking at the map, when I get back to the house, I maybe walked six or seven miles in four hours. Found an old house site, nothing there but a few flowers, a couple of wretched apple trees, and a goodly clutch of morels, which I have folded into an omelet long before I get back home. I caramelize part of a shallot, squeeze out a handful of frozen spinach, and fry the sliced morels with a large pat of butter, several twists of sharp black pepper. I have a six-inch cast iron skillet that I use for nothing other than making omelets. Dedicated equipage. I always drink whiskey out of a hand-blown glass from Iowa, take my notes with a Cross pen in which every single part has been replaced (they have a life-time guarantee), and eat my meals on one of several pottery plates that are too heavy but singular in their color. A creature of habit. I sling my back pack over my left shoulder, to keep my right arm free, always count my steps, and carry a tune in my head. It's not rocket science. One foot in front of the other, anchoring the mop-handle walking-stick every other step; I haven't fallen, knock on wood, in several years. Walking up or down the driveway, mid-winter, crampons, a crust of ice and snow, always leading with my right foot, it's amazing to me that the walking-stick falls almost exactly in the same hole. Shouldn't be surprising, because I take care to walk in yesterday's footprints, but there's a precision that I didn't think I was capable of, and it becomes a game, nailing a hole just so. The pilgrim, alone, as is proper, hunched over, beating his way back to the cave he calls home, his tree-tip-pit, often makes a guttural sound. It's a warning he spreads before himself, so as not to be surprised. Bears leave the area, mountain lions run away, your basic alpha male.