“Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk.” ~Raymond Inmon
I got it into my head this morning to walk the snowy trail along the Irondequoit Creek. My brother-in-law is in town and always game for a hike, even when it’s 19 degrees with a lake wind that makes it “feel like zero.” And I can’t help falling for the seduction of the winter sun, drawing a false connection between its bright morning light and the heat it would seem to be—but is not—emitting.
After some easy hiking and three successive bridges, the trail is no longer recognizable as such. It deposits you on the side of a muddy cliff, icy water below. The root structure of some evergreens tempted us to go on. There are two possibilities: the high way, clinging to roots and a semblance of footing among downed trees, and the low way, which offers a two-inch strip of bank that could be mud, ice, or dead leaves, likely some unattractive combination. We took the high way.
My brother-in-law slipped at the most dangerous point, but had a good handle on a durable pine root. For a second, though, he pulled a Cliffhanger. It was awesome, though I felt secretly guilty for thinking so while he was at risk. A great athlete and woodsman, he handled it easily, pointing out later, “I don’t think my muscles were bulging like Stallone’s.” Earlier we’d debated turning back. I felt badly for putting him in that position. But it was invigorating to be out deep in the woods when innocuous walk became perilous adventure, if not exactly for me.
By chance, I had enjoyed two breakfasts prior to going out. Per my habit of over-identifying with “Lord of the Rings,” I felt a sense of purpose surge within. While it was silly and indulgent, it also put me in the right frame of mind to enjoy the payoffs the hike would later afford: a male and female mallard drifting together on the current; a father and son fishing quietly; the sudden appearance of a waterfall that looked so much like glass, I could not say for sure it wasn’t; the discovery of a poplar that had split into two equally massive trees, the common trunk of which was twelve or fourteen feet around; and finally the tired, satisfied hamstring muscles climbing the last hill home.
The hike enabled me to receive the gift of a winter day that, if asked, I would’ve said I could do without. My default setting is vague depression/irritability, especially in New York’s long winter. I need to be jolted from it. Walking never fails to supply the jolt, even quieter walks with no hints of danger.
Do you walk? Where? What do you experience? What do the angels whisper to you?
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“Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk.”
Amen!
And amen. I had a walk myself- Oneida’s been feeling like more of a chore than a home sometimes, but on the weekends I force myself to explore. I found a cemetery today that I’ll return to any chance I get, and I especially look forward to experiencing winter-into-spring there. Thanks, Dan & Gabe- I share your joy, and your relief from the indoor blues.
Thanks, Timmy! Cemeteries are the absolute best for walking, and to experience the changing of seasons.
Can’t wait to see you in a few weeks! Remember our walk last year to the top of Saraboche? The best way to beat those Mickey Mouse blues!
I am also glad that you both had your elevenses.
How could I forget?
Thomas Merton:
“[Jean] Giono has a wonderful essay about walking the roads of Provence, from village to village. He says that this is the only way to really ‘know’ a region. He is, of course, perfectly right. On all the journeys I have made in trains and planes (not so many) I remember mostly being tired and buffeted by impressions. Even though walking is an exertion, one does not remember it as tiring, but only as a joy.”
Great stuff, John. I only wish I could make myself walk in the winter more often.
The first snow of this year in Exeter, NH, was December 5th. As I sat in my apartment watching the movie “Angels and Demons,” by Dan Brown, which was written by him while he lived in the same wing of the building that we now live in, I thought about Dan talking about the importance of walking. Beth and I had skipped the holiday parade in town when the precipitation was still rain. Seeing the snow, wanting to do something that made feel alive, I asked Beth if she wanted to go out after the movie. She hates the cold so she said no…at first. She works so long under such difficult circumstances that doing anything takes more effort than she feels she has avaiable. Sick of passing up on life, she agreed to bundle up and head out. We went to the river outside our apartment building (it is an old mill). The river is a coastal river below the falls and a stream above the falls. It could be said that we live where water comes together with other water. We engaged in all of the traditional snow pleasures: snowman building, snowball chucking, eating falling snowflakes, and creating snow angels in the dark.
My favorite place is where the rivers meet. An old-timer, who walks the river path every day, showed me how the sound of the river changes from behind the hedges to the open space just beyond them when walking the path. The space where this sound change occurs is your first view of place where the water comes together when walking the river path from the mill to the String Bridge.
“My favorite place is where the rivers meet.” Of course it is. Wonderful.
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