The Last Traces Of A Retired Winter

Hock Rock River - Photo by Fred Schulz

SUN AND CRYSTAL ICE, A FROZEN TRAIL AND THE SOUNDS OF THE URBAN WORLD

MUSKOKA AS WALDEN

     THE COLD AND ICE-COVERED ROAD HAS ACTED, ALMOST AS IF A PERCUSSIONIST'S TIMPANI, THIS MORNING, AS SOUNDS OF THE URBAN NEIGHBORHOOD BOOM THROUGH THE FROZEN MIST, RISING ABOVE THE BOG. THE AIRCRAFT OVERHEAD, SOUNDS AS IF IT MIGHT LAND ON OUR LANE, AND THE SNOWMOBILE ENGINES, SEVERAL STREETS OVER, SEEM ONLY YARDS FROM RUNNING INTO ME, OUT FOR MY MORNING WANDER TO NO PLACE IN PARTICULAR.

     THE FOOTSTEPS INTO THE WOODS FROM YESTERDAY'S WALK, ARE NOW FROZEN IN TIME. CRYSTAL STEPS THAT I CAN STEP INTO, VERY CAREFULLY, SO AS NOT TO SLIP AND TUMBLE. BEING ABLE TO CLEARLY TRACE MY PREVIOUS PATH WITH EASE……SLIDING ONE FOOT AND THEN THE OTHER IN THE FOOTPRINTS THAT PROGRESS EVENLY THROUGHOUT THE FOREST, AND DOWN TO THE EDGE OF THE LOWLAND HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW. I STOP AFTER ONLY FIVE OR SIX STEPS, MY BOOTS FITTING SNUGGLY IN YESTERDAY'S PRINTS, AS FRANKLY, I FEEL IT SOMEHOW WRONG TO RELY ON THESE STEPS TO FREE MY THOUGHTS, AS THE PASSAGE DID YESTERDAY, AND THE DAY BEFORE. I WOULD FEEL LESS PROGRESSIVE IF I DID SO, AND ARRIVED AT THE SAME PLACE, AT THE SAME TIME, TO EXPERIENCE THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF A DIFFERENT VIEW OF LANDSCAPE THAN PREVIOUS. 

     IT HAS SNOWED SINCE YESTERDAY'S RAIN, BUT THE WIND THROUGH THIS CHANNEL OF TREES, CLEARED THE LIGHT SNOW OFF THE ICE TRAIL. BY ACT OF HISTORY-MAKING, I MADE THOSE STEPS. BUT THEY ARE BEST SERVED AS A SORT OF PHILOSOPHICAL RETROSPECTIVE TODAY, AND EVEN SLIPPING MY BOOT IN THE SAME INDENTATION, SEEMED AS IF TRYING TO RECLAIM SOMETHING THAT WAS NECESSARILY HOLLOW OF SPIRIT…..AS IF I WAS A GHOST TRYING TO RE-KINDLE THE PAST, OUT OF SELFISHNESS, AND DISRESPECT FOR TIME AND PERPETUITY; AND THE CHANGES NECESSARY BETWEEN SUNRISES, AND SUNSETS, FOR NON-FICTIONAL LIFE TO CONTINUE AS WE KNOW IT.

     IT IS A WINDING, UNEVEN COLLECTION OF FOOTSTEPS THAT LAY FROZEN BENEATH THE TOWERING PINES AND LEANING BIRCHES, SILVER IN THE SHADOWS, A TRAIL OF SPARKLING GLASS, AGAINST BLACK WHEN THE SUNLIGHT BREAKS THROUGH THE FOREST CANOPY. AS IT IS SUPPOSED TO, LATER IN THE DAY, AND THE WEEK, MORE RAIN WILL COME TO BREAK DOWN THIS HISTORY OF A WANDERER, THE ABSTRACTIONS OF AN ARTIST, THE MEANDERINGS OF A POET MIRED IN DEEP THOUGHT. THESE FROZEN STEPS FRUSTRATE ME, AS A VOYEUR, BECAUSE THEY TELL ME NOTHING OF WHAT I WISH TO KNOW…….AS I FIND MYSELF WONDERING ABOUT THE THOUGHTS I HAD YESTERDAY MORNING, IMPRINTING MY TRAIL FROM HERE TO THERE, IN THE DEEP SLUSH THAT PREVAILED. IT WAS LIKE A PORTION OF MANUSCRIPT LEFT TO FEND ON ITS OWN, YET HAVING NO CAPABILITY TO SELF-PRESERVE. NO ACCOMPANYING TRANSLATION, IN WORDS, TO EXPLAIN WHY I TRAVELLED EAST AT THE FORKS, AND NOT WEST AS IS TYPICAL ON THESE DAILY WALKS.

     I CAN NOT CORRECT WHAT HAS BEEN FROZEN ALONG THIS PATH. THE FACT I LIMP FROM AN OLD INJURY, IS NOT RELEVANT HERE, EVEN THOUGH I MUST HAVE FELT THE DISCOMFORT ASSOCIATED, AS THE FOOTFALL PROGRESSED IN THE SLIPPERY COMBINATION OF SLUSH AND ICE BENEATH. AS I'VE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO LEAVE HISTORY ALONE, IN DAILY LIFE, I PONDER THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THIS TRAIL……WONDERING, THAT IF IT HAD BEEN MY LAST FOOTSTEPS ON THIS PLANET, REVOLVING FOR THE FINAL TIME IN THIS MORTAL COIL, MIGHT MY YOUNG LADS HAVE FOUND THE FROZEN TRAIL THIS MORNING, AND KNOWN IT WAS THE LAST ADVENTURE OF THEIR FATHER. OR WOULD IT HAVE MELTED IN THE STRONG SUN, TODAY, BEFORE THEY EVEN THOUGHT ABOUT A VISIT TO MY FAVORITE RETREAT. OR WOULD THEY ARRIVE HERE ONLY TO SPRED MY ASHES, AND NEVER TRULY KNOW THE EXACT PATH I'D TAKEN? WHAT DIFFERENCE WOULD THERE BE, TO THEM, AND MEMORY OF ME, IF THEY STOOD AND PUT THEIR FEET INTO MY FROZEN STEPS? THEY WOULD HAVE FOUND THE SAME HOLLOWNESS THAT I EXPERIENCE NOW, STILL PUTTING MY BOOT IN AND OUT OF A POORLY FORMED, AND UNEVEN FOOTSTEP, HERE AT THE BRINK OF THE BOG…..THAT WHILE HISTORIC, MEANS NOTHING BUT A "PATH ONCE TAKEN."

     I HAVE NEVER, IN LIFE, SUGGESTED MY BOYS FOLLOW IN MY FOOTSTEPS. NOT ONCE. AS A WRITER, I WOULD NEVER WISH THIS UPON THEIR FREEDOM, AS IT IS VERY TRUE, WHAT HAS BEEN A BLESSING HAS ALSO BEEN VERY MUCH A CURSE…..A GREAT WEIGHT TO HAUL DOWN THESE PATHS……THE URGE, LIKE A MILL STONE PENDULUM, TO RETURN, AS TIME CLACKS, AND THE MECHANISM WINDS DOWN, HOME TO BIRCH HOLLOW, TO WRITE, AND WRITE, AND WRITE…….

     AS IF AN ADDICTION, PLEASANT ENOUGH WITH BURDEN, I WILL RELUCTANTLY SLIDE INTO MY OFFICE CHAIR, PLAY WITH A PENCIL, OR PAPER-CLIP, HAVE SEVERAL SIPS OF HOT TEA, AND DAYDREAM A WHILE LONGER……BEFORE FEELING THE URGE TO EXTEND MY FINGERS ONTO THE KEYS I LOVE TO REJECT, AND TURN AWAY FROM IN A LOVER'S SPAT……ONLY TO RETURN AND FEEL THE ECSTASY OF WHAT I BELIEVE, MISTAKENLY OR NOT, A PROGRESSIVE EXERCISE TO IMPRINT HISTORY. BUT I SHALL NOT FOLLOW THIS SAME DIRECTION TOMORROW, JUST AS I REFUSED TO FOLLOW MY FROZEN FOOTSTEPS IN THE WOODLANDS……SUPERSTITIOUS, I SUPPOSE, THAT I WOULD BE REWINDING THE PAST, AND MAKING MISSTEPS ON THE SLIPPERY SURFACE. AS YESTERDAY BROUGHT WITH IT MANY CHARMS, AND SUCCESSFUL EXECUTION OF NUMEROUS PROJECTS, I'D HATE TO INSPIRE FATE TO HAVE A SECOND LOOK AT MY LEGACY.

     IT IS A STRIKINGLY BEAUTIFUL DAY HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW. I WILL TAKE AN AFTERNOON SAUNTER OVER AT THE BOG, TO GET AWAY FROM THIS DUNGEON, AS I SEE IT TODAY. I NEED MY MUSE, TO FREE ME IN SPIRIT FROM THE TOLL OF WRITING TOO MUCH, FOR TOO LONG, AND THE FEELING THAT, SOMEHOW I HAVE NOT COMPLETED THE TASK REQUIRED. MY MUSE WOULD CARESS ME WITH RECKLESSNESS, AND I MIGHT WANDER DREAMILY, INSTEAD OF MINDFULLY, WHICH AT TIMES, IS A CURSE……IF IT WASN'T SO WONDERFULLY PLEASANT AT THE SAME TIME.

ENJOY YOUR DAYS IN MUSKOKA. CELEBRATE THE SPRING SEASON.