A Reminiscent 24 Year Old TR, or the Essay That Wasn't

[Fisher Cat]

Last year I entered an essay in the annual Waterman Essay Contest. The theme was, ironically the same as this year, What is wild? How is it defined?, Why Do We Need It? I thought back to one of my solo sojourns as a 16 year old and decided to write about it. It didn't win, but placed in the Top 10. I gave it to one of my hometown newsletters that published it in 3 installments. Now that they published the last installment, I thought why not share it with everybody else. If you have ever wondered what keeps the outdoor drive of a kid (now adult) going in the heart of a kid raised the "Coos Way", this might give you some insight.

A WILD PURSUIT

Life teaches us that for any given word, thought, even action, each individual will have their own interpretation. For some, the concept of “wild” is defined as a three-year old running through the house, bouncing around like some unwieldy, supercharged bumper car. Others see “wild “ as a white- knuckle flight on a frenzied amusement ride, the kind of wild where we get a taste that we want again and again and to achieve it we will go to incredible lengths of exertion.
My parents wanted me to grow up with the element of natural wildness. It’s the reason why they built a log cabin in the middle of the woods of northern New Hampshire. There we were, north, but west of the Presidential Range. Shoot straight east, across reclusive terrain, and you would smack right into Jefferson Notch Road. In order to see the home one would have to fly over it. Here in the woods along with the creatures within, we were free, wild and free. It was not until many years later I realized that what was normal to me was considered wild to others. Encounters with wildlife, be it coincidental or planned, were common. I will never forget one in particular. It was a fall morning. I was walking down our gravel driveway en route to our bus stop. It was not just your typical misty New England fall morning, it was shipwreck-producing fog. I can still picture the slight bend in our driveway. As I approached, I felt a presence. I was not alone. I knew, I just knew, it had to be a moose. I stopped. I felt, as much as I heard, him take a step or two. With those meager strides I could now make out the silhouette, darker than the fog itself. It was a bull. It was also the rut season. We were both charged up at this point, albeit for different reasons. It was not the biggest bull I’d ever seen but all that prior exposure meant nothing right now as I’d never, ever been this close to one before. There was a rippled snort. I could picture his lips rattling up and down. It reminded me so much of the horses I cared for over so many summers. If this was a stand-off it was only so because I didn’t know what else to do. To flee would only postpone the trampling. To fight, well, the outcome is a foregone conclusion, is it not? Another step or two on his behalf and he was gone. I could hear his massive bulk snapping and breaking vegetation. I guess there was no reason for him to stay. I imagine he left both satisfied and disinterested. After the adrenaline rush I thought to myself, well, that was not so bad, as I repeatedly looked over my shoulder. When I returned home that day his tracks were clearly visible and reminded me of my appreciation that this graceful beast had benevolently extended to me a lease on my young life. Often I get so caught up when relating this as my mind takes me back to the scene, I forget the thought of anyone listening. When I come back to reality, I have often noticed some mouths a bit ajar; yes, wild indeed. Others who visited our cabin found their own definition of wild. You see, we did not get a flush toilet until 1986. It was an anniversary present to my parents. But, that’s another story for another time.
It is all too easy to associate wild with something uncharted, untamed, or unknown. Hence, the eye of our mind whisks us aloft over remote forests and valleys, it sweeps high above the mountains and dives down into shadow cloaked glades. It speaks a whisper of desolation, seclusion, of a sort of hinterland. Then it screams at us in a voice that is not acknowledged by the ear, but by the mind, and we hasten to follow. We want to see it, feel it, a baptism of reverie. We will go as far as we can to attain it without any regard of finding our way back, and when we arrive, how good it feels. However, we cannot create that which is wild. Let us say I decide not to mow my lawn. I am going to just allow it to grow in whatever way it wants. That is hardly a wilderness. The earth is just doing what is normal without a care of my intentions. It does so with forces well beyond my pitiful attempts to create something wild. When we separate ourselves from that which is cultivated, that which is truly wild requires as much our state of mind combined as the physical location we seek. As a young child, I went into the woods full of eager expectation, energy, adventure, and freedom. When those forces converged somewhere deep in the forest my own definition of wild began to form. Perhaps it is a bit like your own.
The question is what is it we seek in the wild? We are looking for an environment devoid of what is common. For many, our lives quietly slip into the repetitive, mundane, even dull. When our existence seems meager we want to put the everyday behind. We will cross a desert, paddle to a remote island, climb a peak just to be able to drop into the depths of the other side and disappear into a wooded secrecy. We strive to lose sight of anything man-made, each step taking us farther away from the droning hum of activity we are accustomed to. It fades to a hush, a final gasp, then it dies completely. We want to secure a place, where along with time and space, we too lose sense of perception. We seek peace, solitude, and meaning. For all we have seen and done on the daily scene we realize that true peace comes from the things over which we have no control. We stuff our packs and walk for hours, days, weeks, some for months and years. For what? A wind driven rain in a speechless forest? A soft, yet penetrating sunrise that awakens us without effort? A mossy carpet of which every inch is new to us? Maybe it is the challenge. A test of our abilities. Do we still have them? Can we survive in a land stripped naked of comforts? Or maybe we lust for a time of focus? To make us complete? Yes, indeed, perhaps all of these. We forsake all we have worked and struggled for and let it go, without a care or regret. That is what we want. Like some ancient conjurer, we bleed ourselves free of every vestige of civilized life in an attempt to appease our melding with the wilderness. It is our personal rite, with only the sky, trees, and rocks as our witnesses. As hikers, we chase the natural, wild state as if it were our holy grail. It beseeches us with its calming influence and rugged approach, a pursuit of absorption. The justification being that the harder it is to get there, the less likely we will be disturbed or even found. We jealously guard its location, keeping it to ourselves or a few trusted friends. After all, it is our own personal Eden.

 

[Fisher Cat]

Reminiscent 24 Year Old TR Part 2

Yet, we cannot escape the fact that as humans, when we enter a wild place we are, in a way, an intrusion. Perhaps you have noticed what happens when we get started on a trail or begin a bushwhack. The natural inhabitants of these areas give us a wide berth. Why? Because they have their own definition of wild and it does not involve us. No need to be disheartened though. Such wild locations are an inviting experience to us. When we place our boots firmly on unknown ground we are accepted with a silent consent. I know this is true as I had the opportunity to experience it myself. As if it were not enough to have the woods as my home, the intrepidness of youth often beckoned me into the deep reaches of its realm. Like I had done countless times before, this time a September morning, I gave in to that call. I decided to go into the woods surrounding our home and just hike as far as I could. With nothing more than a day’s worth of snacks and fluids, I took up my linen snapsack, slung it over my shoulder and went out the front porch door. After jumping off the porch, I descended the gravel bank and I was off. I had a choice of using one of two of our logging roads to start. One veered almost due east in the direction of our spring. I was more intent on the other. It started with a straighter line. It had three nice bumps in it at the start, perfect for a mildly fast sled ride. Between this log road and the other lay our sugarbush. A small feeder path connected the two. A faint groove could still be seen, the result of countless steps upon a thinning snowpack making their impression every year when spring seemed in its infancy. Obviously, it was much easier to follow in the winter than any other time of year. Keeping Hardwood Ridge to my east, I took a southern course. I knew that if I remained true to it I would end up exiting on either the Cog Base Road, or Route 302, maybe go all the way to Bretton Woods. To my far west was Cherry Mountain Road. Surely, I surmised, what was truly wild would lay somewhere in between. As far as I knew, and had gathered, there had never been any type of settlement there and the oldest of maps indicated that no trails ever existed. I followed our logging road to our harvest cuts and halted. I stood at the boundary of my own personal frontier. The road ended here like an alpine river emptying into vast, borderless sea. Beyond here was as wild an area as I had ever known. Beneath each step, nothing more than the countless bounty of endless autumn harvests. I walked for hours. First, point to point, but then I let myself be guided by inner sense. When those senses finally told me I had gone far enough, I acquiesced. I untied my snapsack and let it fall to the ground. I followed shortly behind it. I stretched out my legs before me, clasped my hands together and placed them on my lap. I was content, my back against the rough yet satisfying, welcome support of a spruce. I felt the moisture of the ground slowly, but inevitably, seep into my wool pants and press softly against my skin. The only warmth coming from a repressed mid-afternoon sun, haphazardly falling through the dwindling canopy above, to fall in random spots of my body.
I do not know if I actually slept or had merely accomplished the silent peace of a wild place. The first to acknowledge me were the always stirring chickadees. When the harkening call of the jays also faded, along with the chattering of a red squirrel, I felt alone. When I heard the nasal twit of a shy nuthatch and the resumed activity of an until then unrevealed downy woodpecker, I knew I had reached a oneness with both the forest and its inhabitants. I was a self-muted observer in a natural setting. In a uniquely simple way I could feel the ground as if it was alive and watched as earth’s creatures traced routes along high branches and the forest floor, paths that were known only to them. I am not sure how long I reposed like this, it really did not matter. I was free of care in a wild place.
Instinct eventually told me that, regrettably, I would have to return. For a day that many would consider uneventful, it was exactly what I was looking for. I knew I would not be able to retrace my steps exactly in this uncultured place, but that is one of the benefits of such an endeavor. In a place that one is not familiar with it is all too easy for our eyes to play tricks on us. Combined with shadows and waning light the effect is very surreal. Add to this the fact that you are alone and no one knows where you are, you have another element that chews away at your mind. It was obvious I had veered from my initial course but how far was indiscernible. What I did not think possible was about to give me a great surprise.
On the edge of my vision I began to notice stretches of white and gray, like lines at first, but they had height to them. They were intermittent, but they had the look of being somewhat organized, a pattern. This simply could not be, I told myself, not here amidst such isolation. Was this really possible? A stone wall? I had to know, this potential discovery could be the greatest of my young years. As I approached, much to my amazement it was unbelievably true. Like the spine of some forsaken animal, it arose from the earth. These stones had been intentionally set, and I might add, a good job at that. I could not fathom this, and I knew that no one else would either. I walked away in a daze, my mind trying to engage rational thought. Had I been cheated out of what I thought was pristine wilderness? Could finding a relic of past human presence do so? No, I thought, no one will dump a bucket of ashes on my snow pile. But wait, I asked myself, would I have felt differently about today if I had stumbled upon this first? Would I have forgotten my purpose in being out here because of this happenstance? Would I have excitedly rushed home to relate the find?, or, would I have gone home in disgust? Would I have continued my journey? Maybe I was just crazy, or supremely befuddled. Now since it was even later, I had to get home. I could not have gone too far when directly in front of me, with a slight bearing off to my left, was an object so shaped that one could tell it didn’t belong here. I could see that it was rusted and clenched by the soil. I reached down and gently plucked it away from a hesitant grip. The damp leaves and black soil now crammed under my fingernails. It was, of all things, a cowbell. It was as big as my outstretched hand. The clasp and clapper were still intact. My wet, gritty hands held it tight. I was afraid to shake it, thinking it would bestir some ghostly voice that would exclaim “ Ah! So there you are! I’ve been looking for you!” Indeed, now I knew, someone had been in this desolate spot before me.
One might conclude that this discovery ruined my wild experience. Quite to the contrary, it taught me a lesson about wild, forlorn places. I had come here to empty myself and let the pervasive wild fill me in. It had done just that. The wilderness teaches us what we need, when we need it, and, most importantly, it teaches us when it’s ready to do so. I had gained a new appreciation. That day I enjoyed my own sense of the wild. In that day I enjoyed a fleeting vision of what originally was. I also saw what it almost became. Then I was an active onlooker to its reclamation. The wild was blossoming again. How often do we get the opportunity to witness the life cycle of something greater than us? Not often, if at all. However, in the wilderness, those wild places on the horizon, we do. I do not know where that spot is today. It is still a part of the White Mountain National Forest just as it was then. It is not on any map. I could not find it if I tried. But it is still there. Someday perhaps another will visit it. Even if that happens, it will remain just as I wish to remember it, forever wild. When I returned home and related my find to my parents, they of course asked where this location was. Relieved, and with great pleasure, I reflected but a moment, and was happy to tell them that I had no idea.

 

[Fisher Cat]

Holy Cow, I Can't Believe There is a Part 3

Wilderness is the purest form of natural detoxification. A mountain-hewn cathedral of purification. That is why we need it. Whether we find it by stepping off an established trail or an epic trek to a far-flung destination, we will always pursue it, an unending search. It is our mental expectation coupled with physical fulfillment. It is a perfect equation exercised again and again. It is here we gain clarity. It opens our mind to concepts we cannot grasp if left to our own feeble devices. For me, it is found in the heart of my White Mountains of New Hampshire, the Land Above the Notches. When I open that door, I enter a room without walls. It is why I return time after time. Therefore, while it is true that what is considered wild will vary from person to person, one thing is sure, there is still plenty of wild in the wilderness. We want it, we need it, and most importantly, we can be a part of it. It does not ask for much in return for our usage. When we think of all it provides us, it asks only to be respected. In that way when we make our mournful, anguished return to the daily life it will still be there for us, and others too. I think we can all agree that it is the least we can do. The granting of such a plea is not only well deserved, it is most certainly, long overdue. Our time spent in the wilds of this land may be miniscule compared with the everyday demands we face. Rest assured however, it is never forgotten. The exposure will stay with us much, much longer. This is but one experience. It happened to me almost twenty-three years ago, but I can walk into that moment as clear as if it were today.

A true wilderness may not always be what we imagine it is, but a wild place is everything we make it for ourselves. Somewhere out there, caught between what we dream and what is real, is our own wilderness. Our own personal haven. Find your wild place. It will call to you from within, then heed its command to take it where it needs to go, a place it can express itself – a wild place, where both of you are free to roam. Let us do our part to keep it that way. For in the end we might just realize that preserving and having that which is wild will prove to be the final redoubt in the battle to keep ourselves sane.

POSTSCRIPT- It wasn't till many years later I found proof of what I had discovered. Twice I had bushwhacked, once with my great uncle then by myself, to the top of the Dartmouth Range and was able to look at Bretton Woods. On this "Wild Pursuit" I had kept true to the southern bearing, but had drifted a bit to the west. Finally, when I had given up hope, someone directed my attention to some of the old maps kept by the town historian, Helen Merrill. Sure enough, on a map of Jefferson, 1892, in the area I had tracked through, was a black square denoting the "Ray & Hale" homestead. Mystery solved, but still I wander.

 

[Tom Rankin]

Nice job and congrats!

If you want to post a really long TR, you can just quote yourself and continue in the same thread. You could still do that, and I will gladly delete this intervening post.

 

[David Metsky]

Mod Note - I merged all three parts into a single thread. No reason for people to track this in multiple places.

 

[Fisher Cat]

Wow Dave, thanks! I had no idea that could be done. Can I ask how you did it? is it something only Mod's can do?

 

[David Metsky]

Can I ask how you did it? is it something only Mod's can do?

Well no, all users can post two replies to their own threads.



Yes, mods can merge threads. We don't do it often because it overtaxes the hamsters that run the machinery, but in cases like this it seemed appropriate.

 

[Kevin Judy and Emma]

Great stuff, Scott!

Definitely a good read, whether you won the essay contest or not. Certainly deserves an Honorable Mention at the very least, but most of all, you are able to articulate what many of us feel, and explain the reasons why we are in the woods in the first place. Thanks!

KDT

 

[jjo]

Well written...thanks for sharing.