Old

look back, to go forward

The river runs in a long, snaky manner through the oak-covered hills for mile after lonely mile. Jagged limestone banks purge themselves of fossils, rocks, and bones that have been piling up along the water’s edge for curious seekers for a thousand years or more. The remnants of a few old Indian burial grounds still crown the highest points here, forgotten by everyone except a few; they will be lost with this generation.

I can hear the pheasnts calling back and forth in the tall grass along the waters edge, in my mind they are warning each other about me, or maybe an errant fox enjoying his afternoon stroll in this Indian summer, like me.

The first white settler to walk the same paths as I today was Jacob Beelar. Earlier in the day, I stood in his 1852 hand-hewn cabin, which still stands. Not that long ago in human history, yet long enough. Looking at his rough and rugged logs that were pulled from these very forests, I try to imagine what it was like following the elk and buffalo out of the river valley, trying to stock up on something for the coming winter.

What a person did back then mattered; you walked on a knife-edge of sorts, far from help and at the mercy of the wilderness. In Jacobs' day, an almost two-week wagon ride would take him to the nearest frontier town. What is it about these old things that draws us in, piques our curiosity, and sets us daydreaming?

As I canter along down the trail, it’s easy to pretend that life would be different, and therefore better, if we could just wind the clock back a few hundred years and join our long-gone brethren in scratching out an existence from the land. Nothing could probably be farther from the truth.

But, persistance matters, there are things we can learn and appreciate from the old ways.

It’s good to keep a hard edge in life, to persevere, the fight for what is right and good. To appreciate and take care of family, to earn a living by working hard, to do things with your hands, to remind you of your tenacious hold on earth and life.

With those things on my mind, I decided to leave the well-worn path and try the river that was calling me close like an old friend. It is an old friend. I grew up on these banks, spent a young lifetime seeking adventure here. The river did not disappoint; it reminded me of the peace down here by the water.

Like the old willow that has withstood the floods, winds, storms, and people over the years, we need to be flexible. Better to bend than to break. Move in the rhythm of life and the people around you. You’re stuck here, like it or not, in the culture, job, family, wherever you are; make the best of it.

Someone, somewhere once said, redeem the time.

Relics of the past are all around you; some are from 100 years ago, some from 100 million years ago. Time moves on, crushing and grinding everything into nothing. Generations build cabins on the frontier with nothing but the animals for company. A few lifetimes later, they are lost and forgotten, as if they never existed. All that blood, sweat, and hard work; laughter, tears, love that filled a lifetime is like the smoke of a campfire. Here one second, gone another.

As the long day ends, my feet are tired, the river worked me hard, and it’s not easy to let go. I get angry at the fading light that seems to be running away over the far hills, as if it’s pushing me to go back home.

But how can I leave this pulsing flow of life and go back to the hustle and glow of the phone screen, the digital hell that gets the claws in and won’t let go? Even the water seems to slow down in the evening, as if tired after a day of pushing and bubbling south.

A few owls are starting to call, and the darkness is pushing me out of the woods and back up the trail. I can see a few eyes starting to reflect in the low light, deer and raccoons coming to claim their domain while the rest of us huddle in the electric light.

I can smell the wood smoke from a mile away, a scent that can pull the most footloose rambler back to where they are supposed to be.

I can’t help it; I’m drawn to the old and the past. It helps me deal with the future and the now. Kicking through the leaves, rocks, and detritus of the past brings solitude and perspective, giving me peace and hope.

If the old ones could figure out a way to survive here with nothing but an axe and some wisdom, maybe there is hope for me yet.