Sacrament

At the top of the hill, a chorus of frogs hollows out the dark meat of night. It had been dense and pressing until their song cut a bowl deep from its middle. No one belongs here but those quick beasts, no one except the deer, of course, creeping through the iris and hydrangeas, sampling from early summer’s smorgasbord.

They love it here, the frogs. They love this place for the reasons humans hate it. The swamped earth and diverted rivers return, forever return, to their native channels. Difficult Run has to fight her way through metal culverts and concrete spillways. Incorrigible, she splits carefully crafted barriers and seeps into the low gardens of the neighbors who thought they had her beat. Water striders and minnows frisk along her shallow trickle, happy for anything, happy just for the moving wet.

It isn’t long before the mosquitoes move in. They come with company: tiny biting gnats in clouds, a frantic halo of deer flies, drunken moths. Right behind comes the steady advance of deer ticks clinging to the underside of leaves, waiting for a hungry host to press past so they can slake their own thirst. Cast across the towering firs is a constellation of lightning bugs animating limbs from root to sky.

Oh, the feast! The frogs and toads have every reason to sing. This soft crescent of earth, this horn of plenty, provides for every finicky taste. Even at dusk when bats emerge to carry off more than their share from the streetlamps and porch lights, still, such abundance! It is maddening. It is a bacchanal. Out from greased throats belch voices of gluttony. Satisfied grunts echo off scoured maples still dizzy from the rapid retreat of winter.

The amphibian symphony rains down on the blank brick of gargantuan houses. Blue haze flickers from second-floor bedrooms. At the windows, moths beat their desperate wings and hurl their bodies against screens. As busy and dim as it is, they lust and lust for the light.

                                                                                                       

What did the luna moths and biting flies desire before our arrival? They must have hungered for the moon. That single cool beacon, forever in a state of partial undress, lingered just beyond reach. Did they all throb for her? They take what they can get now that the moon is the smallest light in the sky.

Bellies bursting, the frogs sing on in the low damp of the borderlands. Night skims her ladle across the font and spills gospel through the deaf streets.                                                                                        

Devolution

Night is falling. So is wet snow. We turn onto our street, and my son announces he wants to walk the dog when we get home. For months, I've been wheedling and bribing him to help with this task. And now, on the night my mother is home to help with this, and slush is glopping from the sky, and it's been a wretched day, he wants to walk the dog?

"Yeah! In the far away woods!"

Of course.

This is the season of yes. I have committed to looking up, to paying attention. After a deep breath, I take notice. My very own boy has offered to walk with me. In the rain! At night! I may be tired, but I'm not a fool. I wrangle us both into the house to don rubber boots, grab mittens, leash the dog. It is already dusk, and I have no time to scrounge for either umbrella or flash light, or to remember to pack a snack. It's just us and our restless feet.

"Hop in the stroller, kiddo!" He does, and I entrust him with Fenway's lead. In my flopping wellies, I jog the rattling stroller over a mile of black neighborhood streets, through the intersection, up the cul-de-sac, into the stretch of trees that can carry us into the deeper woods. The capricious weather needles my cheeks and creeps down my neck. My blood rises to meet it, defiant.

We park the stroller upside-down and tramp down the root-veined path. Untethered, all three of us tumble through curtains of bud-tipped shrubs into the forgiving mud. Bug and the mutt take turns surging into the lead. The mist deepens around us. My boy pauses to pick up a clump of wood he claims is coal for keeping us warm.

"It is getting dark," he says to me, stopping to notice scarlet-edged night slipping around the brush. "Can you find your way in the dark, Mommy?"

"Oh, yes, baby. I am right at home in the woods. I can always find my way."

"You're not scared?"

"I love it here." I spread my arms wide. "The forest is wrapping around us, giving us a big hug. The trees keep us safe."

He walks on. "I can hear the raindrops," he tells me. Then he grins. "One just got my lip!"

We twist over the damp bridge and into the creek. Bug is wary at its edge until I remind him he is in galoshes. He stamps right into the water. "Now one-two-three of us are walking in the river!" Fenway is already splashing upstream.

Shoulders squared, the little Shackleton makes his way along the creek, up and over the thickening brush. "Be careful of the prickers, Mommy!" He calls back, not waiting for my response. He scales an eroding wall of loose rock then descends back into the water. Even when the easy bank is within reach, he favors the tangle, the splash, the slip.

Then just like that, it is night. I see it has plopped down in its big easy chair and there is no chance of rousing it. Bug sees only the next eddy, the next swirling bend, his next step. The depth is hard to gauge. He is careful until he is not. Then, down he slips into a smooth, black pool. He sinks quickly, up to the knees. Water snakes with breathtaking suddenness into his boots, down to his bones. Before he has a chance to panic, I swoop in, grab him around the chest, and swing him over to the shore.

The mighty explorer shrinks down to a quiver and a sway. Even in the blackness, I can sense tears pushing back against the rain. A small voice whimpers, "It's really cold."

He leans in. I pour the water from the boots and peel off the socks. I hunch my broad back down, heft the cub on board. Crouched, iced to the marrow, we make our way back downstream. Darkness embraces us. The creek guides my blind feet. Bug burrows in, digging his ice-seared fingers into mama bear's armpits, pressing his cheek against my damp back. The pelt may be thin but it is durable. Thorned bushes bend deep, the knuckles of trees prod me gently along. Low and sure, I make my steady way towards the place where the forest breathes open and spills us over its threshold.

A blanket, mittens, relentless rain. We leave the safe embrace of forest and wind our way back through the strange wildrerness of the neighborhood. Brick and clapboard blink at our passing, uncomprehending. Our faces are clouds of wet fog. Our faces are swallowed by the singular smile of upending routine and shaking out ancient secrets. No one can see what we smuggle from the forest in our naked arms. No one even knows we are here

We have gone native. We are jungle. We are night.

Ain't No River Wide Enough

If Wellies worked for hiking, perhaps tackling Little Devils Stairs two days after torrential rains wouldn't be an idiotic idea. The quiet parking lot on the east side of Shenandoah National Park only had two cars in it at 9am on a spring-ish morning. Could that have been a clue, Watson? Perhaps hikers with half a brain (or a healthy sense of self-preservation) were covering less treacherous trails.

As for me, I had to go for it. It isn't often this mama has no kid, clear skies, and enough energy to dive into the Appalachians. But even my determination was tested by repeated crossings over a swollen river. So much for my leisurely, rejuvenating day hike. Little Devils Stairs? Aptly named. Except for the "little" part.

Just 25 yards from the trailhead, I found myself on the bank of Keyser Run without a way across. Every stone and tree used by previous hikers to manage this daunting task had either been washed away or was submerged under a foot of rushing water.  After several adjustments to my position and a stern conversation with my spine, I made to the other side. Little did I know my victory was just a warmup. Little Devil Stairs is nothing more than a snaking hike up a steep creek gorge. Every time the trail crossed the river -- and it did so more than a dozen times -- I had to stop, assess, and concoct a way across. This meant tramping up and downstream at every juncture to compare downed trees, slick boulders, and water volume.

On several occasions, the only option was a narrow limb jutting out from a root-ball on one crumbling bank and balanced on the teetering rocks near the other. I am not usually prone to vertigo, but even I had to sit down on my rear and scootch most of the way across. This ridiculous sight of this tactic is one reason I prefer hiking alone.

At one of the more upright sections of the staircase, I found myself stranded in the middle of the river. The stone I had just slid from was clattering away downstream, and the bank was still five feet away. I squatted on a slick rock with white water roaring on both sides of me. A water-heavy log bobbed nearby. It seemed my best chance. I gritted my teeth and grappled with the monstrous thing until I got a grip. I hauled the log up against the current and pushed it into a more useful position. For some strange reason, gravity chose not to punish me for that moronic feat.

It was on about the ninth crossing when she finally decided to have her giggle at my expense. My foot punched right through a rotted log. Down I tumbled into the mud and frigid wet. Fortunately, my right shin bore the brunt of the fall. I was drenched to the calves but upright, and I gotta tell you, there's nothing that kicks a person past the momentary paralysis of a fall quite like coming to rest in ice water. It also turns out that having a quart of it stored in each boot makes navigating the rest of the crossings a bit easier. Only a bit. It's still incredibly difficult to make oneself step right into white, rushing water, no matter how wet the feet already are. This gal had some words for that river. Not ones I'd want any of my loved ones to overhear.

Having not hiked in any meaningful way since abandoning the Adirondacks, I had a small learning curve to navigate. Double-blazes mean a turn ahead. It took me a few baffled meanders into tangled underbrush to remember this. As each trail turn plunged me back down the river for yet another crossing, I quickly developed an unfortunate pavlovian response to the markers.  Poor river. She's probably still blushing from the fervor of my profanity.

With my legs a-shaking and my gumption well-tested only a couple miles into the hike, I came upon yet another double blaze. After a stream of invectives, I barreled on, only to discover the turn heading up and away from the river. I have never been so happy to see a switchback in my life.

For most of the rest of the hike, I slogged happily along muddy trails in my drenched leather, smartwool, and fleece. Synthetics preserved me from both chill and blisters until the sun came out to lend a hand. It turns out that with the right socks, wet boots are rather spongy and bouyant.

At a juncture with the fire road, I decided to give those low hills the old what-for. I took the extra loop and added another 2.3 miles onto the hike. It turns out I also added three more opportunities to re-experience my earlier delight. Taking the Piney Branch loop forced me to criss-cross an even wider tributary of Keyser Run. Despite my most damning vitriol, neither ferryman nor magic carpet appeared at my feet. I just had to tramp and shimmy and wobble my way to dry ground.

Which I somehow managed to do.

Four hours, 7.8 miles,  16-odd river crossings, only 3 other humans witnessed (one was a park ranger: "What, didja swim across?").

Wild? Check.
Solitude? Check.
The bruises to prove it? Check.

Behind the Curtain

We wandered off the side of the road in the cul-de-sac while walking the pooch. Bug was all too eager to climb on top of a stump, declare himself king of the hill, and brandish his twig-scepter over all in his dominion. "I command the trees," he declared. "Grow!"

We scrabbled down in the dirt, found branches blown down from the storm, and shoved them into the mud at the base of the gnarled tree. "It worked," I said. "See? It's bigger. It grew."

Bored, Bug followed the dog through the brambles as she sniffed down a cowering rodent. Together, they nosed their way into the hollow base of a towering maple. They took turns shoving their heads into the mossy crevice. "Come out, little mouse," Bug called, menace in his voice. A piece of weather-crisped paper clung to the weeds nearby. "Mommy, look!" Bug charged after it, unfurled it and wiped off the mud. "A map! Do you think it's a treasure map?"

"Let's see. It has arrows on it." We bent in and assessed. "Let's see. M-A-P-Q-U-E-S-T. Well, looky there. I think you have found a treasure map!"

"Let's go find the treasure!" My boy charged down the cul-de-sac. "What does it say to do?"

A glance at the paper provided a good stall for considering options. Would it take us into the backyard? To the nearby school with its acre of play equipment? Eagerness and fatigue fought it out in me. It would be so easy just to hide a box of pennies in the sandbox as we have done for the past few weeks. But I have longed for my son to have his wild places. If I do not guide him there, who will?

"This arrow says to go left."

Over a decade ago, I moved into this neighborhood the first time. My folks reluctantly allowed me to occupy the guest room as I geared up for grad school. I stayed on for four years, walking these same loops and lollipops when I needed a fix of breath and sky. Now, back at home, after living in every other time zone in this great nation, the familiarity is both a comfort and a tender wound. Each home in this rareified corner of Northern Virginia is out-of-reach even while I inhabit an address here. I've walked my way right back around to where I was. What comes next? Is there any answer other than "I don't know?" The future is uncertain to the point of skipping over terrifying and crashing down on the other side. Call it an adventure. Saddle up the cyclone. Adjust the prism just so, and a crumbling path becomes the Yellow Brick Road.

Because my figuartive path disappears into the unknown whenever I try to get a fix on it, putting my feet on a real blacktop is the best way to keep the faith. Such small rituals keep me coloring inside the lines. I walk the dog the same two miles every night. Unfurl the ribbons of blacktop I have covered in thits patchwork neighborhood, and it would stretch halfway across the continent. I know these streets.

More importantly, I know the way in to the small swaths of undeveloped land whispering behind the McMansions. I call out to Bug. "It says to find the second green post and turn left. It will take us to a secret trail."

Bug gasped in delight. "There it is! The green post! The second one!" We veered over and he scooted down the side of someone's driveway. "Here? It says here?" Even he was not so sure.

"Yep. It's a secret trail."

Down into the roots and mud we traipsed, finding a small woodland where trees stretch their shoulders and the can breathe. Bug found the bridges the map told him to find. Then he discovered the bank of the stream where the map said we were to land.

"Where is the treasure?"

Oh. Right. Treasure. Think quick, mama. "It's buried. In the water. Let's look."

We bent down, dragging sticks through the trickle of the creek. Then a flash of light. "There!" He gasped. Sun glinted off a stone.

"It's a crystal!" We dragged it from the water, this square-ish hunk of rock. We washed it, marveled at its milky tone. On down the creek-bed we wandered. The erosion in the Difficult Run watershed is unstoppable. Exposed roots grasp at ever-crumbling banks. Mud sucks at bridge footings and athletic shoes. Pebbles and detritus churn in the living soil. Thousands upon thousands of tiny stones comprise the very ground. Adjust the prism just so, and riches are at your fingertips.

"Look! Coins!" Another rock sheared into thin, malachite-toned discs in our damp fingers. Oblong, glowing. Dubloons, no doubt. We gathered tiny bits. Rose quartz, gold, and a finger of silver. Bug washed his gemstones in the water. He tucked each precious thing carefully away in a box he had brought just for this purpose.

We discovered a post leaning on the fulcrum of an infested log. Bug climbed aboard, balanced at the center against both the vertical and horizontal wobbles, and announced, "This is my treasure! You cannot get it!" The lever became a see-saw, a ship, a throne, a cannon. We blasted through outer space, each tree a planet on our solar system tour to hide and then find the ever-elusive gemstones. Bug slid joyously down a mud-slick bank. "I don't need to hold your hand," he hollered back at me. He clung to roots to scale the other side.

Down into gulleys. Up along hills. My boy led the way with smug fierceness, commanding me to stay put so he could scramble down a log alone and slip momentarily out of sight. On our weary way back out into daylight, Bug ducked under a tangle of thorns and tore himself loose, declaring, "This is one messy adventure."

You said it, kid. We ain't in Kansas anymore.