Woods & I
Unlocking something
I spent two whole days in the woods on Sunday and Monday. I tapped the little airplane icon on my phone, and effectively swore off any contact with a world that didn't involve my whole entire body for 48 hours. I only wanted to interact with the environment around me, and plunge wholly into a ~sensory~ experience. Only for a moment, no NYT notifications, no emails, no unconscious scrolling, nothing that could be beamed off the flat surface of my evil iPhone — I swore off time, too, leaving my watch behind. I felt only the need to complete what was in front of me; I felt no anxiety about things I could or should have been doing, because the only thing I was meant for in those moments were the physical challenge in front of me. All that mattered was the energy I had to put toward just moving forward. Everything was quiet and still, save chirps and rustling. I felt fantastically present — how trite this all sounds. Think sports, I guess. It’s difficult to put words to. All that I have are a few observations from the few days I puttered and stirred in the highlands of southern New Hampshire:
I struggled; personally, I found it difficult ascending and descending mountains with a forty-pound pack on my back. Such a struggle forced me to feel every inch of my body, and completely fill it with the sheer will necessary to complete such a thing… perhaps this is simply called blood. My fingertips, my toes, my nose felt full — my ears even grew especially hot.
I added some bruises and scrapes to my collection, and I like them because they make me feel scrappy. I admire the threat.
I will resist the metaverse with every ounce of my being.
I was feeling especially obsessed with visuals, completely at awe with the (super) natural world around me and desperate to hold onto a part of it somehow. (What a ridiculous human effort! Why can’t one just let things be!) I had packed my camcorder — another attempt at abandoning the aforementioned evil iPhone — and thus tried to record a magic that only exists so deep into the woods that you must pitch a tent, because you can't possibly reach civilization before night falls. Naturally, I failed; such an feat is, after all, impossible. I think the one thing that has come the closest is Bridge to Terabithia (2007), but I assure you, this magic exists.
I’ve nevertheless attached a few unedited snippets below.
Throughout the trail, there were trail logs that people felt inclined to scribble in. Some add thoughtful paragraphs about their 70th time up, others simply write: Claude here in red marker, or I love my friends within a hastily drawn heart. A particular one that struck me was a message written in all caps in frightful handwriting: “Beauty and solitude. Unlocking the winter,” dated from March.
It’s impossible not to feel connected with these people when you read their scribbles. It’s oddly intimate. I actually think this practice should be implemented into greater society. Perhaps each table at Tatte or bathroom at a movie theater should have a little book like this that people sign with their own little blurb, so that a lone diner or two feels camaraderie with the people who sat at this table before them. Perhaps that is the one way to find community in the hustle and bustle of a Tatte dining room, which is oddly dehumanizing as is. And maybe then a person or two would feel more inclined to clear their table after they finish their food. One would sign the log at their table and carry on with their day, knowing they’re a part of a long lineage of people who picked at a brownie at the table in the corner, and thus feel a greater responsibility for their crumbs.
My mom’s fingers pointing to a small detour we didn’t end up taking; our feet and backs and shoulders and bodies were in too much pain to imagine doing anything extra. We actually started this 50-mile trail four years ago, but couldn’t finish 30 miles in because we were caught in the rain and all of our things — our tent, food, bodies — were drenched and freezing. This trip finally reconciled that. It’s odd, to finish something you started so long ago, when you were such a different person in such a different world, almost like meeting an old friend you haven’t seen in four years to have the most exquisite dinner.
A truly wiped dog.
I imagined Howl’s Moving Castle atop this cloud. The rest I leave to you to make your own conclusions about:
