There’s a nature preserve about two miles west of here. I hike it frequently. A ravine runs through it. At its west end a small stream winds through the woods and joins a deeper, ruler-straight stream that isn’t quite a ditch. They widen together, crawl under a small footbridge, and become a marsh for a bit. The land then narrows around it, squeezing the stream out of the marsh and into a tree-lined ravine.
A trail loops through the woods, crossing the ravine at its deepest point. Crushed limestone gives a satisfying crunch with each step. If I’m running, I get slightly ahead of the sound, just a fraction of a second, but it's enough to sound like I’m being followed. I turn back and look, and if the weather has been dry, little clouds of dust rise above my footsteps silently.
These woods are old, but not ancient. They didn’t grow out of old fields or orchards, but they aren’t undisturbed. Strewn about the floor of the forest are boulders, some as small as woodchucks, some as large as lambs. In New England, these would have ended up in a stone wall.
Back at the ravine, the bridge can be quite slippery. I have to cross with caution and humility. The path then winds steeply up. I like to see if I can climb it without slowing, to let my leg muscles burn with the effort, to try to even out my breathing. In the late fall, the trees on either side are brown, except for the occasional green spike of a white pine rising above the canopy. I pause to catch my breath. To the left of the trail, through bare shrubs and fallen trees, a three foot wide cone of cement rises, topped with a rusted iron disk, access to some world beneath.
Right now, looking out my window, a burning bush is bright crimson against the green buckthorn and the brown oak trunks. I really should cut it down—it’s considered invasive. So is the buckthorn, but cut it down, and hundreds of small shoots rise from its roots. I sometimes stare at the woods, trying to edit out the houses, to somehow unfocus my eyes and see only nature. I am surrounded by lies.
My phone is my only camera. It takes beautiful pictures but its skills are limited. A camera has no imagination. Seeing and remembering are creative acts, more unfaithful and beautiful than any photo. In a little while, I’m going to lace up my boots and hike. I’ll remember to look all around me, to register the transition from early to late fall. And I will take pictures. A lie can be beautiful.
