“I think we can make it” are surely an adventurer’s last words.
That’s what I told my friend Josie, as her red hatchback plowed along the snowy Spring Valley road.
She disagreed, said as much, and parked on the side of the country road. We hopped out and decided to continue on foot to our destination. Our goal was to drive to Spring Valley reservoir and hike around it. It was, at the point we parked, about two miles away.
It was 28 degrees and snowing on December 20th. Josie and I have a habit of hiking together on the solstices and equinoxes. Winter was in like a lion. Autumn rains from the Pacific yielded to the cold and filled the world white.
Winter is a canvas for the natural world to expose itself
Part of me felt a pang of disappointment. “Walking along a road isn’t hiking! This isn’t adventuring! This isn’t even nature!” I was rattling off to Josie about my qualms. I wish I had a truck with four-wheel drive, or studded tires, or better chains – or money for any of those. We could be at the reservoir right now!
She told me to stop walking.
Up ahead of us were four enormous ears, a mother and calf moose, apparently very captive to my spiel. I shut my trap.
We all waited silently. Her calf began to investigate us, nose to the ground. But mom wasn’t having it, and urged the little one to follow her into the woods. By the way Josie told me to start walking again after the moose ran off, she apparently was the mother moose of our duo.
What a great moment. It gave me a chance to re-apply my attention. No, this wasn’t what we had planned, but maybe there was something worth paying attention to. I tried to notice the experience positively – I had a great conversation partner, on a beautiful day in the country.
Winter is a canvas for the natural world to expose itself. And it does, like in the nonsensical paths of turkeys wading through the snow, clearly as uncomfortable with flying as walking.
It etches it’s name in the bark of trees, chewed off by porcupines and moose families. All over subtle signs of nature: Beavers paddling, flickers shrieking, ravens whirling.
We did reach the reservoir, which was extremely satisfying. Although the low hills aren’t much to write home about, it felt epic and sacred in the snow and fog.
Josie and I took a seat on a tussock of snow and meditated. How nature remains so quiet in all her vastness, I will never know.
We didn’t stay at the reservoir long. But the lesson to live in the here and now requires no time at all to practice. In fact it benefits from brevity. We walked to the icy pond, sat for a moment, and walked back.
As we neared the car an enormous snow plow sheared the road down to the gravel. If we had waited a few hours, we could have driven the whole way there!
And to think of all of the small joys we would have missed!
I’m afraid that I sometimes have been in the same situation. Things have to be a certain amount of “remote” before it feels as though I’m actually roughing it. I think the most recent experience “settling for adventure” was sledding with my two-year-old son. We went to the local drainage ditch, surrounded by a residential community, and spent less than a half-hour enjoying the slopes, but we were also the only ones there to enjoy them. The fresh unmarred snow top revealed canvas that our little sled could paint as many or as few lines as we please.
Since then, I’ve seen more sled lines show up, like a community art project. I’m glad to see that with our adventuring perhaps inspird others to go get a sled and be outside.
That’s wonderful Jordan. Thanks for sharing your experience! I’m sure your son loves it, “roughing it” or not!