My Place

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It takes a short hike to get to my place, no matter which route you follow. My favorite trip is almost as wonderful as being at the place itself. It’s almost like a trip through my past.

I head out the door and amble down past two wonderfully ancient and graceful oaks. Their bearing is so regal that I take a few precious moments to pause and admire their full display. Snowy white shows through in the places where their almost paper-thin, dusty-gray bark has peeled partly away or fallen entirely. Most of the tall, thick trunk is bare except for a few scattered shoots branching off in spots of green, or brown as the case may be, against the splotchy trunk. A single leaf is large enough to hide both of my hands when placed upon my face-up palms. The crowns of the twin giants spread out almost at the same point, interweaving the branches in remarkable patterns while patches of stationary sky or shifting clouds can be seen in the background. A squirrel may peek its head out from the home in the larger of the two, run chattering up the trunk to hide from me, or intently burrow in search of a hidden treat. 

With a sigh I finally head on only to be caught by a flood of fond memories when I look opposite the oaks. Not as regal as its neighbors, the small tree crouches over next to them like a child studying something while the elders look on. The branches start to splay out from the trunk just a little higher than I stand at it’s shortest point, for it perches on a gradually sloping hill. The little bent youngling covers a small shaded area blanketed in clover and shoots of onion grass from the early days of spring to late in the fall. A small rock is tucked under the uppermost part. The memories washing over me are those of days gone by when this was our most common hangout. I shake myself, remembering the purpose of my journey, and turn my feet down the path once more.

Soon the path leads me into the woods, and I am walled in by a world of green on all sides. Light may penetrate through the overhead canopy, and sometimes soft rain filters through in mists that cool my skin. I may run into others on this trek of mine, but we are only passing. We may wave or even stop to talk a bit, but we both know we must soon go on our way, though it may make us sad to do so. A rabbit may bolt across the path in front of me, or a gopher too may run into the woods on my approach. Once a tiny baby snake slithered determinedly across and I stopped to watch, mesmerized by the S-shaped pattern he traced on the path. We touch each other in this world, nature and I, and leave each other again with only a memory. In this world, I am wrapped in a blanket of peace that wards off the chills of anger, hurt feelings, or despair. 
A stream creeps near the path a little farther down and again I am drawn to a halt. Here we have spent many hours – catching crayfish and releasing them, walking through the water, stepping across the stones. Sometimes it’s a gurgling, bubbling flow of water; others it is reduced to merely a whispering trickle. Once, I stood face to face with a deer across the stream. We were held in a spellbound moment until somewhere a branch snapped and he turned, startled, and bounded away. These fond reveries drifting lazily through the sea of thoughts in my mind, I wander on to the last leg of my travels.
Rounding a corner, I come face-to-face with the ‘treacherous’ and reasonably steep slope we fondly call ‘Dead Man’s Mountain’. I begin to clamber up the large expanse. The hillside has been washed to bare dirt over the years. It is hard to balance; yet I manage it easily. Only once or twice do I have to put my hands down in the soft dry dirt to steady myself. The many paths I can follow are engraved in my mind. When I was younger – the mountain only seemed more formidable then – my aptitude for climbing this slope earned me the playful nickname of ‘The Little Monkey’. Reaching the top, I can either pull myself up between two rocks that jut out of the mountainside or go around where it is just plain dirt. The two rocks form a little mini canyon, carved out by years of water washing the intervening dirt away. I normally choose to pass between the two rocks. Then I have to clamber over an old fallen log. It is massive and never seems to decay or wear away no matter what.
After that I must push my way through branches blocking a path. At one time this short stretch was always clear. It has sadly fallen into disuse, allowing the forest to claim it for its own again. We used to traverse these pathways almost everyday. The other members of our old group have either moved away or no longer like to explore the woods. They either say they are too old or that there is no longer anything to explore. The forest holds constant mystery for me. I feel like I will never tire of it, but even I do not get up here often, mainly because there is no one to share the experience with. After all, sharing is half the fun.

Finally I am at the end of my quest, and I cross the expanse of green grass to my place. It is a small semi-circle shaped outcropping above an almost vertical slope. It is just barely big enough for two people to stand or sit. I stand for a few brief seconds, taking the sight in. Trees march down the slope, and then comes the large pool complex. After that my eyes travel over the small park area, and then the entrance to the path that led me to this point. Sighing in relief, I sit down, letting my legs swing over the edge as I put my hands on the ground and lean back, closing my eyes. I let the sounds wash over me. Faraway calls of young children, chirping cries of songbirds, the striking call of a raptor. Gradually everything fades into the background and a calm, quiet serenity envelopes me. Wrapped up in this wonderful peace, the sounds of the forest are far away and the sound most pronounced is the occasional swish of the branches blowing softly in the wind.

Eventually something inside of me calls me to stir and I open my eyes and rise reluctantly. With one glance at the view, I turn and start the return journey home. It’s a struggle to even recall the reason why I ventured up here in the first place. I do not pause as often on the way home – I don’t need to. Yet I know if necessary, I can travel this road again. The comfort of that thought speeds my tired feet towards home.






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