A blank winter sky as barren as the enfeebled tree branches that flail at it. Some frail leaves cling to a past life, dangle constricted and crumpled. Sickly evergreen needles cringe in the pallid cold. Below, piles of dead leaves conceal pitfalls as they blanket the perilous contours of the treacherous ground. Fallen dead limbs jut out of the leaves like zombie arms reaching up out of their winter graves. A low flagging sun – sunrise, sunset, does it matter? – casts a dim glow in the distance. Nothing other than these impaired photons stirs, no breeze, no bird in the sky, no scurrying creature. The forest is as still and quiet as I hope death is.
There is a bit of a road. Two worn parallel tracks in the dirt. It bends through the trees out of sight. Tire tread marks left by some ATV mar its surface. Recent? Or preserved, like surviving wagon wheel ruts on the old Oregon Trail left by the Conestoga wagons that headed west centuries ago. This could be Mars – if that planet had trees, remnants from some failed attempt at terra forming. There is a reddish tint to the dirt. Perhaps a little rover had passed this way.
But this is not Mars. So why hike up a barren road through an empty forest into an empty world late on a cold afternoon? Why are we drawn to such voids as this? Mountaintops, caves, the depths of the oceans. This quiet forest in winter repose. I had discovered this dirt road after pitching my tent in the campground at Natchez Trace State Park in western Tennessee, ten miles south of I-40. It was an empty campground with no other campers. In other seasons it would have been lively, with children at the playground, and flames in the fire rings filling the rich air with dense banks of earthy wood smoke, and the scent of charcoal burning off meat drippings.
In this season there will be nothing novel to see around the bend up ahead. No astounding scenery, no exotic wildlife, nothing but hibernating nature. Only dead wood, and more of the same. This is not the season for life, so why venture on? Perhaps there will be a good vantage point from which to witness a glorious sunset, for it is a sunset up ahead. There is beauty at the end, hopefully. And I do hope. The world hasn’t disappointed me so far.
I hike on. The sunset is colorful enough, but nothing to snap a picture of. It is getting darker now. Perhaps the night sky will reveal a trove of stars. But the moon is nearly full, so bright it washes out the heavens. Helpfully, the brilliant moonlight illumines my steps. I brought a flashlight. And a heavy jacket. And a backpack stocked with snacks and a full water bottle and an extra set of batteries for the flashlight. I am not a careless hiker, unprepared for the cold and the dark. And the aloneness. I have been accustomed to that for quite a while.
What I am not prepared for is the emptiness. No nocturnal stirrings in the deep woods. No owl hoots, no scuttle of raccoon. How much further should I go into this emptiness? What do I expect to find? I love hiking in the woods, even one as devoid of life as this. I am in good enough health to walk all night into the dawn. This road is plainly marked, and there is an abundance of light from the moon, and my flashlight, if needed. I don’t feel in the least bit threatened. But I need a reason to keep going. Back in the campground is my pitched tent, and a comfortable sleeping bag. How much further, before it’s time to lie down and relax?
The road ends, at nothing. Shining my flashlight ahead, there is a trail that continues. It is not well-defined and is obscured with dead leaves and fallen branches. Should I go back? This isn’t safe. The trail could easily be wandered from and lost. What I should do is walk back to the campground, zip myself into my tent and sleeping bag. I decide to press on, for a little way. Slowly, carefully. There is an almost–full moon in a clear night sky, and there is my flashlight. Trusting in my remarkable sense of direction, I walk off the end of the road onto the narrow trail. It is difficult, in the dark, not sure where to place my feet, stepping over fallen trees onto uneven ground, ducking under fallen limbs, writhing between and through grasping branches. This is nothing more than a deer path. Dead growth presses in on all sides, envelops me.
Why continue? To see something no one else has seen in years, or ages, or ever. To venture somewhere truly wild, leaving virgin footprints. To tread on untrod ground. To discover El Dorado, or something similar – a lost civilization – here in the forests of western Tennessee. If you venture to the ends of the earth, there is no end to what you might find.
I halt. There is no discernable trail ahead. No hint of a trail behind me, either. I am in the midst of the dark. Venturing any further without a trail to follow could get me truly lost. But there is no panic. Having walked for quite a while, it can’t be long until dawn. Having been able to follow a trail by moonlight, surely, I’ll be able to locate it in daylight and backtrack my way out. Just stay calm and accept the situation. So, I sit on a nearby log, lean back against a tree, and close my eyes. Not El Dorado, but close.
Shivering awakens me. Numb with the cold. A dim grey in the sky. Dawn, or nearly. I push off from the tree my body had settled into and pull myself upright. Clinging for balance, my stiff Lego-like body creaks like the Tin Man, unoiled. In the murky haze of this late night-early morning there is no trail to be discerned. I am truly lost, and the dense mist enshrouding the faint forms in the forest will not resolve to make me less so. Must go somewhere, somehow. Able to make out the slope falling gently away ahead of me, I plunge into the damp blankness. Down is the best way to proceed, there is always something at the bottom. What blocks me is brittle and easily broken. I move slowly, carefully placing my feet on frosted firmament, on slick leaves, tottering rocks and tree roots thrusting upwards.
I descend into a dry wash. By this time the mist is thinning. Exertion has banished my shivers. The going has become a little easier. The bare creek bed is a path to follow. Any path is better than no path. I can track gravity to its source.
The descent grows steeper, and a trickle of water appears. Water always leads to somewhere. My cautious step acquires a cautious bounce.
The trickle becomes a stream. Must stay to the side to keep my feet out of the ice-crusted water. The sight of water reminds me of my thirst. Pull my water bottle from my backpack but find it empty. When was it finished? I glance at the stream. This isn’t clean enough to drink. Maybe later if it turns to clear running. Down, on down, I follow the water down.
The world is quiet. This early winter morning is so still not even the slight stream makes a sound. No birds, nothing to hear except the dry sticks snapping and the rocks clicking beneath my feet. Even my insides are hushed; my lungs, my heart, the pulse in my ears, empty thoughts in my head, all quiet.
Until the sound of flowing water grows loud enough to notice. The stream has broadened to a creek. I scoop some of the coldness and splash my face. It feels stimulating. I rub wet hands across the back of my neck. The icy water brings my body back into the world.
I follow the creek down until it joins a wider creek. Getting somewhere now. I continue down along the bank. Such a wide creek must lead to civilization. Keep walking and I’ll be okay. The mist has lifted, and the sun is peeping up over the hills in a clear sky. It is going to be a glorious day. You don’t get too many good days like this in winter. I intend to make the best of whatever comes along. So much time has been squandered on senseless tasks, busywork, believing that to accomplish is to achieve. While the world has been patiently waiting for me all along. I will enjoy this pleasant walk despite my circumstances, which are dire only if I believe them to be so.
The creek makes a sharp bend, and there is a road. A rutted dirt track similar to what I had walked into the wilderness on the night before. Before climbing the bank, I scoop up water into my mouth, and rinse, and spit. Don’t trust it to swallow, but still the water resuscitates my lips, tongue, gums, roof of my mouth. Two tall strides propel me up to the pair of ruts. No question of which way to go. Continue going down.
This walking is much easier. No longer is it necessary to concentrate on where to place each footstep. Tension oozes out of my pores as I fall into an easy stride. The road follows the creek down. If lucky, I’ll come upon a good fishing hole, and a fisherman who can direct me back to the campground.
I’m not lucky. The road veers away from the creek. I consider following the creek, but it’s hard to abandon a path, any kind of path. So I follow the road up a hill. At the top all to be seen are other hills. In the winter woods you can see great distances, which can be dispiriting if what you see is not what you are hoping to see. I walk on for miles, up and down, round and round.
The road improves. The pair of ruts turns into a dirt track, which acquires some gravel. Progress is being made, to somewhere.
The sun is high when a hill is topped, and a house comes into view. Elation, until the house is near enough to see it’s not much of a house. The roof is fallen in, all glass is gone from the windows, the front door dangles. I leave the road to wade through tall grass in what had once been a yard. The wood porch doesn’t appear sound, but there could be something inside to inform me where this is. I clear the cobwebs from the doorway and lean in. The stench is repulsive. After retreating from the porch while gagging, several deep breaths clear my lungs. What could stink so badly?
I wander through the tall grass around to the back. A shed, a garage, all rotted and fallen-down. In it a brightly colored cozy car. Plastic is indestructible, it will outlast the Pyramids.
I am about to walk away when a flash of light through the empty back doorway catches my eye. Is something in there? How could anything stand the smell? I creep up to the black rectangle. “Hello?” Of course, there is no reply. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Or was something else? Sniffing carefully, it doesn’t smell near as bad as before.
I step inside. There is enough light coming in to illuminate the corners and lend a sparkle to the cobwebs. The kitchen is surprisingly clean and totally empty. Where had that light come from?
The sudden pelting on the roof makes me glad I had come inside. This would not be a good day to get soaked. Surprisingly, it is rain, and not snow or sleet. Peering out to see the heavy clouds that have rolled in, I fear it could be a while before the rain stops. Might as well rest while there is nothing else to do. Having slept scantily the night before, and having walked a long way this morning, this is a chance to recuperate.
I settle down on a not-too-filthy part of the floor and slip my backpack off. Opening it, I discover my snacks have already been eaten. When? Too weary to worry, I stretch out, placing my backpack under my head for a pillow, and doze.
Another flash of light rouses me. It came from an open door just beyond the kitchen. The pelting on the roof has ended. That is a relief. Until I raise my stiff body upright and glance out the window. It hasn’t stopped, it has changed to snow. Several inches are already on the ground, and it is coming down hard. Snow this heavy will make the road difficult to see. It isn’t much of a road to start with, it would be easy to step off it and get lost in the snow. Besides, the rain that had fallen earlier must have frozen, and walking on snow with unseen ice underneath is dangerous.
I creep over to the open door in the hall beyond the kitchen, where the second flash of light had come from. Steps lead down to a cellar. The beam from my flashlight reflects off rows of Mason jars on a shelf. Could they still be good? Canned food lasts for years, if properly preserved. It would be easy to tell if it was rotten. Could this have been the source of the stench earlier? I sniff but detect nothing foul coming up out of the basement.
My hunger and thirst cause me to sling on my backpack and descend. Canned fruit. Peaches, pears, plums. And jellies, could be grape and strawberry. The colorful jars certainly look good. I inspect the lids. None are popped up. Holding my breath, literally and figuratively, I unscrew a jar of peaches. They smell good. I sip the juice. Good. I nibble on a peach. Good, all good. I feast.
Three empty jars confront my guilty stare. What are three jars of canned fruit worth? I’m no thief, so decide a twenty should cover it, and provide a good tip. Only my wallet is not in my back pocket. It is locked up in my car back at the campground. Deciding to make a charitable donation in the homeowner’s name once I got back, I poke around the basement looking for something with their name on it.
The basement is filled with junk and boxes of junk. My search for a name goes on and on. The basement is much larger than imagined. The old house isn’t that big. The basement must extend far beyond it. And all of it is crammed with clothes and toys and books and pictures and tools. Some of the odd gadgets are incomprehensible. They must be antiques. Some of the tools I have no idea how they work, or even what use they were intended for. Yet they aren’t rusted or falling apart, they seem to be in good condition. That’s not to say they aren’t covered in dust and cobwebs, or that they are shiny and new. But they are intact and seem to be functional.
I hear something. Stop to listen. Music, barely. So soft, so low. Where is it coming from? I move toward the music, stepping over boxes and around crates without bothering to inspect them. I am on the right track, for the music is getting louder. A single sung word, ‘nock’, over and over. The tune is familiar, but too faint to place.
I come to a wooden door. The music is coming from beyond it. I turn the knob, and am surprised it turns. The opened door provides no louder volume to the music.
Ahead is a dim light. And heat. I flip my flashlight off. It isn’t needed here, no need to run down the batteries. I set it down on a crate, tired of lugging it around. And the heavy winter coat comes off, too. Sweat has already soaked my shirt. I lay it down next to the flashlight, deciding to come back for them.
Ten steps into the dimly lit hall, the floor and walls and ceiling give way to solid rock. This passage has been carved into the side of a mountain. I have read about pioneers digging tunnels from their homes as a means to escape marauding Indians. The old hovel I had entered had not been that old, but it could have been constructed on the site of an older house, even a pioneer home.
I unbutton my shirt and pull its tails out of my pants. The music has faded away, but the light is growing brighter. And the air is growing stifling. I come to a bend in the passage, and am blinded, forcing me to pause so my eyes can adjust. Is the sun out now, and reflecting off the snow to cause this snow-blindness? I hope so. If the snow has not only stopped but is melting, I can continue on the road. In this warmth it must be melting.
Once my pupils shrink, I see a boulder blocking my path. Light floods in all around it. All this light must mark the end of the tunnel. Tight, but should be able to slip past without my backpack on.
I shed my backpack and wriggle through the narrow gap between the boulder and the side of the tunnel. It isn’t as tight as it had looked to be. I emerge from what appears to be a rockslide. The sheer walls of a narrow slot canyon rise on two sides. Behind me the way is blocked by the rockslide. Before me a narrow rocky trail beckons. I strip off my shirt and tie it around my waist. It had gotten torn and filthy from my crawling through the rockslide. Here, at least, is fresh air, which feels so good on my bare sweaty chest.
I walk through the narrow canyon as it twists between sheer cliffs. There is no trace of the snow that had fallen. Nothing even wet. Must be global warming – the way the weather can veer from cold and snowy to hot and sunny like this. Winter never used to be this way. The walking becomes easier as the canyon widens and the path less strewn with rock.
I hear a familiar sound, low at first, steadily louder as I approach. No, I say to tamp down my hope, I couldn’t be this lucky. But I am. A twist in the canyon reveals a waterfall. Nothing to take a picture of, and the pool at the bottom isn’t very big, but it sure looks refreshing. No one is around, so why not? I shed my clothes and tiptoe across the rocks into the pool. The water is cool, but not icy. It only comes up to my knees as I wade out. The water splashing over my head revives my weary body back to life. It has been a long, long couple of days.
A flash of light snags my eyes. Again? Here? Searching for its source, I discover a young couple sitting on a rock watching me. The reason they had previously remained unseen was they were in the deep shade of at the base of a canyon wall. Peering into the dark shadows contrasting so sharply with the brilliant sunlight, the mirror in the man’s hand comes into focus. He manipulates it, producing another flash of light. How is he doing that in the shade? He smiles, calling out, “We like old Bob Dylan songs, too.”
My curiosity takes a back seat to my pleasant surprise at realizing the two of them are naked. Seeing my mouth gape open as my wide-eye gaze zeros in on her, the woman adds, ““I like Guns ‘N Roses better.” She then holds up her long hair to show how wet it is. “We just got out.”
Not wanting to embarrass myself further, I tear my eyes away and wade toward where I had left my clothes. They are not there. I glare back at the couple.
The man laughs. “You don’t want to put them back on. They’re filthy, and you’re clean, now.” They both stand. “Come with us.” The couple walks away down the canyon.
“It’s too rocky. I’ll hurt my feet.”
The woman smiles back. “You’ll be surprised how fast your feet toughen up.” They disappear around the bend.
I tiptoe across the rocks after them. What choice is there? They have my clothes, and there is only one way to go. Besides, it feels so good, still wet from the waterfall, in the cool shadows of the canyon, with the warm fresh air wafting across my naked body. And I am surprised. Soon there is no need to tip-toe. I walk the rocky trail without wincing, even hurrying, trying to catch up to the couple.
Rounding yet another bend, the mouth of the canyon opens up to a wide bright desert landscape. I have no idea where I am. There are no deserts in western Tennessee. But I love exploring new places. I walk out of the canyon with a grin on my bare body, eager for whatever comes next.
Illustration: Suman Mukherjee