Monday Morning Walk
I’m not a truly adventurous spirit although I do read of people engaging in death defying exploits. My hiking exploits skip areas where I’m apt to run into “ wooly mammoths” or gruff bears. I avoid snakes— even those whose venom is non-lethal. I do enjoy heights; however, I can’t imagine myself on a high wire crossing over an expanse of space with nothing below.
Today, when walking around Walden Pond , I knew that our recent rains—downpours —eroded parts of the path closest to the water. Previously the path, in some areas, was only a foot wide before the water edged onto solid ground. Everyone else took the higher dry wood path for most of the pond’s circumnavigation, but I love being close to the water. It never occurred to me to alternate between the two paths. After all I was communing with Thoreau and his pond. ( It’s a pond that takes 30 to 40 minutes to circle )
The first foot wide place was reduced to a dry area two inches wider than my hiking shoe. In order to avoid the water I held onto the bushes on my right. That area lasted for six feet. Three quarters around the pond a second close encounter with the water— more precarious. A foot wide dry area at a fifty degree ( or thereabouts) angle toward the water. If I went in it meant a solid drenching. I held fast to the flimsiest strands of a bush. At one point I lose my balance and grabbed a handful of strands and advanced slowly.
Once on dry ground I picked up my pace knowing I’d be the last person of our seven to arrive back at our meeting place. When I arrived— only a minute or two later than the previous walker—two of the women said that they were watching me straddle between dry and wet terrain. One woman said, “ I was thinking of how to keep you warm if you fell in.” Another asked me if I did the entire path that ran close to the water. “Yes.” But I did add that I’d wait for spring before I do that again.
So next Monday when we meet I’ll walk both paths. Did I say that after crossing each of those narrow places I imagined each as the passage over a giant crevasse — or a mountain trek over fast running streams?
Adventures sometimes are small and gain stature in the realm of the imagination.
Today, when walking around Walden Pond , I knew that our recent rains—downpours —eroded parts of the path closest to the water. Previously the path, in some areas, was only a foot wide before the water edged onto solid ground. Everyone else took the higher dry wood path for most of the pond’s circumnavigation, but I love being close to the water. It never occurred to me to alternate between the two paths. After all I was communing with Thoreau and his pond. ( It’s a pond that takes 30 to 40 minutes to circle )
The first foot wide place was reduced to a dry area two inches wider than my hiking shoe. In order to avoid the water I held onto the bushes on my right. That area lasted for six feet. Three quarters around the pond a second close encounter with the water— more precarious. A foot wide dry area at a fifty degree ( or thereabouts) angle toward the water. If I went in it meant a solid drenching. I held fast to the flimsiest strands of a bush. At one point I lose my balance and grabbed a handful of strands and advanced slowly.
Once on dry ground I picked up my pace knowing I’d be the last person of our seven to arrive back at our meeting place. When I arrived— only a minute or two later than the previous walker—two of the women said that they were watching me straddle between dry and wet terrain. One woman said, “ I was thinking of how to keep you warm if you fell in.” Another asked me if I did the entire path that ran close to the water. “Yes.” But I did add that I’d wait for spring before I do that again.
So next Monday when we meet I’ll walk both paths. Did I say that after crossing each of those narrow places I imagined each as the passage over a giant crevasse — or a mountain trek over fast running streams?
Adventures sometimes are small and gain stature in the realm of the imagination.
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