a reflection

On nearly every Tuesday and Thursday morning since mid-July, I've driven to a large park called Tyler to make my way cross country to the community college, located on a bluff overlooking the forest and river which runs through it. This semester I'm studying statistics, which has so far proven both interesting and at times a serious mental workout. This is accompanied by a pleasant physical workout, since the route to and from the college covers anywhere from 7-10km, up-hill both ways (no joke).

This past week I made the trek twice over the 7km route. The previous week had seen all classes cancelled, so this was the first time I'd seen the park since Hurricane Sandy (and now winter-storm Athena) had paid a visit. What I found proved surprising, despite expecting serious storm damage.

The park authorities did well in that the paved trails were unobstructed, and more-or-less clean of debris. On the other hand, the horse-trails proved the opposite. My typical 7km route follows one such trail along ridge overlooking a narrow stream. Almost at once I came upon the fallen wreck of a giant Beech tree, its massive trunk all clad in smooth, silver bark, like the skin of an elephant maybe. Navigating the tangle of branches proved more difficult than it at first appeared, particularly with my pack laden with a notebook, calculator, and refreshments. It is a curious thing that so often an obstacle that looks easy enough from afar to leap proves more difficult when near at hand. This is the opposite of many "mental" obstacles, which typically become easier once you've had a chance to get acquainted. Consider, perhaps, the proverb that "a job once started is half complete." There might be something to that, and indeed once started navigating a tangle of branches does usually get one through. But I have proven myself foolish again and again by underestimating an obstacle across my path, which might suggest we overestimate instead and perhaps be surprised; or maybe we ought simply to suspend judgment until the obstacle is cleared. Epoche.

The Beech-tree labyrinth proved but the first of several along the way, some more tangled and twisted than others. Later I leaped over a young fallen maple, detoured about the hulking limbs of an old Sycamore, and crunched through a sea of dried and ghostly oak leaves and their accompanying bramble of branches. Upon reaching a sharp cliff overlooking the stream the horse trail follows, I beheld the shocking sight in the valley below of no less than 40 enormous trees scatted here and there among the rocks and craggy banks of the narrow brook. I felt in that moment as if I'd stumbled upon the remnants of a massacre; that in some strange way an Ent battle had somehow raged over this spot, leaving nothing but woody corpses with leafy crowns waving a farewell salute in the wind. Somehow a monument seemed appropriate, but how does one memorialize such devastation? How does one capture the shock of emerging suddenly upon a place of indiscriminate slaughter? Can naught be done but to gape and go thoughtlessly numb?

It is strange how sometimes our thoughts leap about when stimulated just so. A tangle of trees is after all not unlike a pile of firewood, yet within the narrow confines of a rocky valley they become suddenly like the bodies of people, the last vestiges of a battle or some cruel massacre of innocents. Perhaps I have seen too many old photographs of Civil War battlefields, but the image is hard to shake.

A similar scene appeared on the route back, this time while passing through a wide stretch of evergreens. Unlike the scene in the valley, this felt more like the devastation of a forest than the memory of a battle. So many trees had fallen over or been viciously torn to pieces, leaving branches everywhere and spiky stumps oozing with sap. A gentle breeze wafted over the trail the scent of pine and needle, a lovely fragrance were it not accompanied by so destructive a sight.

Typically I enjoy my journey to and from the community college, but this past week's adventure proved a bit dreary and sad. While a perfectly natural process, the death of so many trees is hard to bear. They are like friends, even if "friend" is not the proper word for a tree. They've kept me company, and so often in the months I have made this trek compelled me to smile too. So perhaps they are like friends. And as with people friends, it is sad to see them go.