February 13, 2024
I woke up three minutes before my alarm went off at 3:57 AM. After some coffee and time with the dogs, I sat down to write for an hour. This morning, I would go to walk on the trail at Lake Wilson. I checked the weather. It was dark, windy, and cold.
The conditions at the lake are always unpredictable. When I arrived, the wind was considerably stronger. I was happy I took a face gaiter, as suggested by my wife. Good call. It was extremely dark, but twilight would arrive in about an hour. In the meantime, I would walk by the light of my Petzl headlamp, a small purchase that gave me the ability to walk when the sun was down. As I closed the door to my SUV, I took a deep breath. I felt elated to be at the lake.
I saw a bright flash of light coming from behind the lake's bridge on the horizon, on the southeast corner of the trail. What was it? A few minutes later, it happened again. It was lightning, far off in the distance. I thought to myself, “I’m happy that storm is far away”.
It’s always a little peculiar walking the trails before light. The narrow field of view illuminated by a headlamp left most of the environment unseen. What lurked in those dark places? About halfway into my walk, sporadic drops of water fell from the sky. The next few seconds were a blur, but I remember looking to my right into the tree line. Fifteen feet away, two large glowing eyes were staring back at me. The glow meant this was not a human, but the eyes were far enough apart to be something large. Was it a deer? A coyote? I strode past, turning every few steps to make sure nothing followed me. While this was happening, the sky opened up, and as if someone opened up a hydrant, the rain fell in a torrential downpour.
The wind blew so hard that it was “raining sideways”. IFKYK. The mixture of air and water dropped the temperature, and I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. I hadn't dress appropriately for this type of weather. I made my way across the bridge as water dumped in every direction. Blowing drops of rain pelted my face, stinging from the force of the frigid wind. The bright light of my headlamp made the rain look like lasers flying in every direction, its white reflection making it difficult to see.
Within a few minutes, I was completely drenched. I felt the cold water soak through all three layers of my clothes and my shoes, made of Gore-Tex, that usually kept the water off my feet, filled with water. The experience was exhilarating. At one point, I stopped to shoot a quick video, hoping the rain wouldn’t damage my cell phone. Later, I sent it to my wife, and we had a good laugh. I don’t know why, but these types of situations always make for the best experiences. Being out of my normal routine thrilled me. Everything was new and exciting.
The storm came out of nowhere and when I arrived home, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The bright orangish-yellow sun was peeking above the tree line, shooting gold beams through the grove. As soon as I parked, I made my way through the pines to see the sunrise and take it all in. Soaked and cold, I felt the sun’s radiant heat warming my face. It was a perfect sunrise on a perfect morning.
I went inside the house and peeled off my wet clothes. My feet felt warm the whole time I was out, so I was surprised to discover that my socks were still wet. I made a quick note to always hike with wool socks. The socks I wore were rain soaked, but still retained heat. I threw them into the hamper and jumped into a steamy shower. The hot water on my stiff body felt like needles poking my skin. It hurt and felt good all at the same time. By the end of the shower, I was warm and ready for the day. Work was busy, but uneventful.
In the evening, I went into the woods at last light, walking to Beaver Tooth Rock with a small folding stool. There, I sat on the rock to watch the sun’s light fade into darkness. What was this daily ritual that I called “last light”? Why was I drawn into the woods just before day’s end? Honestly, I didn’t know the answer to this question.
Perhaps this was my commute home. A way to break from the workday and let its grip on my brain release before moving on with the rest of the evening. Maybe it was a love and reverence for nature. A way to say goodnight, a type of acknowledgement that each day was not just a part of a cycle. It was unique; happening once and never again. Maybe it was the end of a daily practice, a marker to examine what I had done and think about what I would do differently the next day.
Whether daily commute or daily communication with nature, being outdoors helped me break away from what was indoors. By definition, being indoors means you are surrounded by walls. Somewhere in human history, shelter, designed to protect us, became a small world where we stayed. At some point, the fortress that separated us from the outdoors became a type of prison that separated us from our freedom. I felt a sense of liberty in the woods that I do not feel in the comfort of my home. Sometimes convenience is the warm lobster pot heating to a boil.
I suspect my ritual involves elements of all these different things. One of the most prominent feelings I have, however, is that nature sits outside of human constructs. Indoors there is safety, warmth, and food to eat. But there is also culture, news, informational overload, ideas about what is important, who is important, and what we should do and who we should be in our lives. While some information is useful, we all know that most of the information in our day and age is junk mail. But this rubbish, promoted by the consensus reality, defines our role in life. But what happens when we step out of Plato’s cave and see life without fabricated conceptualizations?
For me, being connected to society brings good things. But with those things comes everything else. It comes with the ideas of the masses that are, by definition, unenlightened, and based on the ignorance of the majority. This is leadership by mediocrity. In nature, none of that bullshit exists. It is not there, because humans made up those things in order to fool others, and ourselves. We like to believe we can control the uncontrollable. Many people consider nature primitive, but it holds a foundational truth. It created us, not the other way around. Without these human ideas, there is only emptiness. And with that open space comes clarity and the presentation and acceptance of what is. Nature is our native tongue. I have realized that I have to leave my house in order to go home; that going outside is a portal to what lies within.
On the way home, I stopped to check a trail camera positioned facing the creek. Last night, a large bobcat gracefully jumped across the water with ease. I’ll pull the SD card tomorrow and inspect the wild beast. It was time to get back to the house, back into my cage. There, I quipped, lies food, warmth, and protection; for the mere price of civility, conformity, and complicity.