It’s March! I quite honestly don’t know how I feel about that, because I really do hope for a bit more winter. But I am grateful for the sunshine today, and the chance to move into a new month. There is always something refreshing about changing the calendar over and making plans for the near future.
Today, I am sharing part two of an essay, “Tracks,” I began three years ago. If you haven’t read the first half, be sure to click the link below and read it first.
Tracks, Part Two
Tonight, I went off on my own, followed snowmobile tracks on skis through the woods near my parents' house. I set off to familiarize myself with the forest, which is protected state land, parking my car where the horse trail crosses the road. After stepping into my skis, I crossed the field where I pick lilacs in May, then wound downhill into the pines. I had never skied this part of the trail before, and had no idea where it would take me. Springtails pooled in the tracks left by snowmobiles, piles of snow fleas acting as trail guides, leading me further into the trees and nowhere in particular.
After going a little way, I veered off the snowmobile trail, following someone else's ski tracks on a narrower route through naked beech and oaks. This trail felt quieter, even if the snowmobile trail was just as empty, with no machines to be heard for miles. It is as if the creation saga of both paths lingered as I glided over them, and here on nordic tracks, even the memory of snowmobiles was absent. The trail was intersected only by animal prints, including a path that zigged and zagged, leaving the imprint of a low, waddling porcupine on a saunter to somewhere else.
Skiing is a form of meditation for me, as is walking or rocking my son in the dark. Something about my feet touching the ground, about moving my body, helps quiet my mind. The best meditations happen with no destination, only following what is in front of me–a train of thought, my child's breathing patterns as he falls asleep, the unmarked path through the trees.
These moments made for reflection amid our daily patterns seem perfectly planned, as if getting to another place or helping a child fall asleep was meant to create calm in a busy day; to slow down what we may try to rush.
As I followed the ski tracks tonight, I passed from one segment of woods into another that felt equally unknown to me. There were dog tracks along the way, evidence of another skier's companion. While not entirely lost, I was unsure how far I was from Plowman Road, where I had begun. Rather than turn around and head back east, I decided to continue to follow the tracks west to enjoy the last light before the sunset.
I skied onward following the narrow path, the dog prints weaving across, and suddenly found myself somewhere I recognized. The trail led me to a cottage behind my friend Laura's property. I knew the house from a ski Laura and I had taken a few nights before. That night, we had begun skiing from Laura's home, a few miles and a road away from where I started tonight. Somehow, both had led me to the same place.
I realized as I retraced the path in the opposite direction that the tracks I had been following were ours. The dog tracks belonged to Laura's dog, Layla, and this seemingly unfamiliar part of the woods suddenly became recognizable. I saw every landmark we had used to navigate our trek a few nights before: here is the fork in the road where we veered right, here is where we stopped to call Layla back to us.
I circled back to the open field we skied through the other night, one I had skied to years before from yet another access point. Another route across the same land. The sun was setting, and clouds were growing up over the Lake; I could see the faint hint of its expanse from atop a hill. The clouds were dark as they gathered moisture over the open water; more snow was coming. The sun sank lower and left tracks of its own–orange and pink streaks across the dark blue sky.
I looped from the familiar to the unfamiliar and back again. There were no maps, no trail signs to follow, only the sun setting in the west to give me a sense of direction; I turned my back to it and skied east. Occasionally, I joined the Shore-to-Shore trail, saw a wooden post painted blue at the top to mark my place on the rugged path. But I wasn't journeying between lakes. Instead, I was here to be better acquainted with the world inside the roads I drive so often, to notice the trees and how they lined the trail.
After sunset, I rejoined the snowmobile trail, skiing uphill toward my parked car. The air around me turned blue, the rosy glow of the sun now gone. Cold air went unnoticed as my body emitted the heat of movement. I exited the forest and crossed back across the lilac field. The woods were returned to the springtails and porcupines for the night.
Here I am following my tracks again, circling paths laid down three, or maybe thirty, years ago. I have gotten myself lost in woods since I can remember, and now, it is winter again. The paths are harder to see this year, and the snow is less consistent. I only skied twice, and it looks unlikely that I will get to do so again this year. Spring looms later this month; the snow has nearly all melted.
The summer before last, the DNR cleared much of the forest on the state land by my parents' house, removing most of the woods I had skied when my first child was barely a toddler. Now he is four-and-a-half, and as I revisit my words from the winter three years ago, I can still imagine his tiny body. I can still picture the way the trees lined the trails. The pines stretched in rows for what seemed like forever, with snowmobile tracks running between them. Giant oak trees stood atop the hills. I have yet to revisit the trails to see what they are like now that the trees have been mostly cleared. Would any of it be familiar?
The timestamps in this story make my heart ache. My toddler son, struggling to help shovel, is now a preschooler. Now, when he helps shovel the driveway, he is noticeably helpful. Our dog has moved in with our next-door neighbor, a gift in many ways, but still evidence of change. Laura's dog, Layla, is buried in the yard behind her house, and her house is now rented out while she and her husband live elsewhere for work. My family and I live closer to the Lake again, and now I watch the clouds form over the water from the beach instead of from a hill miles away.
With so much that has changed, there is still, of course, the familiar. I still drive the roads that border the state land, even if the view is now of open meadow instead of towering trees. I had another baby who will soon turn one. The toddler days loom again.
So here I am, digging at my old words to see what guideposts I have left for myself. I discover I have been circling the same themes for years, learning the same lessons over and over again. Just a few weeks ago, I stood in a friend's doorway and told them that parenthood, like winter, requires extra preparation, and I said the words as if it were new to me. But here I am, reading what I wrote three years ago, realizing I have done this before.
I loop from the familiar to the unfamiliar and back again.
Swim Club
Follow this thread to stay updated with swim club details. We are swimming tomorrow, Sunday, March 3, at 2pm. Location will be announced on Instagram later today, as well as being updated in the thread.
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Cheers,
Mae