We stopped near a small, windowed gatehouse and waited as a man arose from a folding chair and made his way to our car.
The ginger-haired trustee adjusted his spectacles and smiled as he recited the basics we should know: there is no fee for trail use, but donations are always appreciated. So too would be any efforts on our part to park our vehicles just as conservatively, leaving as much room as possible to accommodate other motorists, since the small parking lot is likely to fill up by midday.
He didn’t bother with the “thou shall nots,” which are prominently displayed elsewhere though they are widely understood by most day hike enthusiasts despite their varying levels of enthusiasm.
• thou shall not camp
• thou shall not build fires
• thou shall not litter
• thou shall not bring dogs
• thou shall not tread off of the pathway
The instructions were as familiar to me as the paper-clip-shaped gate that closed the trail to traffic but opened the parking lot to at least 20 more cars.
Eighteen if you count ours.
The eight of us – roughly two families’ worth (give and take) – had arrived in tandem.
But the familiarity didn’t lessen the dread that had kept a steady, elevating rhythm in my chest.
It was a beautiful day and the two-mile trail to the beachfront was easier than expected since the trail was a literal road in only recent-seeming disrepair.
I wasn’t sure what to expect as we headed toward our hiking destination, the least of which was how we would find it. Literally or figuratively.
Oh sure, I knew the place would be beautiful and surprising. It had come highly recommended. It would require only moderate effort but would yield maximum return for the investment.
I knew at the midway point, there would be the prize of a long, sandy beach. We would rest there and be soothed by gentle ocean waves as we ate our packed lunches. We wouldn’t even have to contend with wind gusts that might threaten to make sand an actual ingredient of the sandwiches.
I could also guess that sunscreen would be less evenly or liberally applied since the sun hid behind clouds of murderous mosquitoes and green-headed biting flies. All of which would inflict damage to be reckoned with later.
Before this worry, though, I had worried we wouldn’t even find the place. It wasn’t a foregone conclusion that someone in programming had already alerted GPS maps to be on the lookout for a small sign posted near a small road, tucked between a dense thicket of pine trees, that would lead us to the trailhead.
A part of me even hoped we’d wind up lost.
Expectations are like this. The things you remember later, and it doesn’t necessarily matter how they measure up or how fond one is of the memory.
My mind always goes to the problems we will encounter mostly from internal forces, like in the angry, scrunched up faces our children – not to be confused with the other children amongst us who are always more amenable – would rather do anything else but walk through a wooded path with their parents.
Doesn’t matter if that path leads to a beach of uncanny beauty or not.
No, mostly I wondered if the familial bond would tether or fray as we enjoyed and endured the exploration together. As we silently compare ourselves and sit in our own hazy clouds of burning judgment.
Except this time we weren’t together.
Illness and infirmity had splintered our family group ever so slightly. Free will had also been part of the calculation for the first time in my recollection. It was no longer a foregone conclusion that everyone would be expected to participate in everything.
Thus, our son — whose sour stomach gave cover for his more usual sour experience of the great outdoors — elected to stay home.
This was a new experience for which I wasn’t entirely ready. And the fact that no matter how beautiful the trees were behind the veil of fog on that island in the distance, they were so much less because my son was not there to complain about the long car ride or the uphill climb to a beach or the relentless nature of biting insects.
And he was happily home, resting up for his quest to lead us all down a bowling lane.
Siobhan Connally is a writer and photographer living in the Hudson Valley. Her column about family life appears weekly in print and online.
"wood" - Google News
August 07, 2021 at 11:35PM
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Ittybits & Pieces: Two paths diverged in the wood - The Saratogian
"wood" - Google News
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