It’s 1:00 AM when I step out from the cozy warmth of this tiny cabin I get to call home for the next few days. The chill is crisp and sharp, as is the darkness. The forest at night is reduced to shades of blue and black. Blue, the open space of air and sky. Black, the backdrop of tree silhouettes towering around you, the slightly sloping hills in the distance, the soft earth underneath your boots. The sky is full of wooly, expansive clouds that obscure a Waxing Gibbous moon which softly illuminates the thick floating puffs as if they were ambient lanterns, huddled densely in the celestial canopy.
Our eyes only just begin to adjust once we reach the water, where the scene becomes a watercolor of indigo and onyx, a brand new way to take in my favorite view, my special place, beneath the pines by the lake. A divergence of earth, water, and sky. Home and habitat to wild things that thrive in all three. Most notable for its nesting Bald Eagles. A place so familiar in the daylight, so foreign in the witching hours. We simply become part of the night, blending in with the shadowscapes, silently taking in all the wonder and beauty under the camouflage of darkness. Inconspicuous are we, here in the wild wood, where time and space move differently.
A misty rain drizzles down and like a gentle sea mist as I look out over the water. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting the tiny droplets wash over me. Giant but gentle gusts of wind break the still surface of the lake, building waves that hungrily lap my feet where water meets the land. Billowy froth forms in clumps, swirling in the shallows. Their milky forms a stark contrast to the stone and pebble below. The wind carries with it my wonder – across the water, through the trees, and up into the cloud-laden skies above. If this isn’t magic, I don’t know what is.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a slender-sleek silhouette glides effortlessly through the rippling lake to my left. She’s a few shades darker than the water so I can just make out her form. The splash of a talented swimmer propelling forward, more graceful and nondescript than the break of tiny waves formed from the wind cutting into the water’s surface. We see her before she sees us. An eager husband pushes the soft button of a headlamp to catch a quick glimpse before she’s gone. Just as eager to put a name to form, I too can’t help myself, whispering out loud when the light finally catches her body, “Oh my goodness, an otter! Hello there!” The artificial light beams straight at her like a tiny lighthouse. Coupled with my non-natural sound of escaped excitement, it cautions the otter to dip below the surface, disappearing beneath the blue-black surface, re-emerging a few feet away. We watch in awe as she makes her way around the curvaceous bend of the shoreline, fading into the darker shades of the night, sailing towards the swamp lands.
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If you want to talk of enchantment for a moment, I shall tell you of the card I pulled the evening before as I sat at the small wooden table of Cabin #5, its wood worn and weathered smooth from decades of use, like a weary tumbled stone. I always bring my oracle cards with me on camping adventures. I tend to receive affirmations and messages with much more clarity out there than at home, especially when seeking wisdom from the wild world – as I listen closely to what the flora and fauna of the spiritual sense have to say. I chose to consult with the Woodland Wardens that night – as they always seem to convey a timely message, especially when I feel a bit shaky on my present course. The card revealed Otter and Cattail – a card representative of peace, calm, and tranquility.
Was the otter just doing her otter thing out there during her stealthy late night voyage? Surely. She didn’t expect me to be wandering around in the dark after midnight, pulled over and idling in the shallow shoulder of her lake water interstate. Nor did I expect to see her in that moment, even when knowing that otters are more nocturnal and crepuscular than they are daytime hustlers. I’ve seen the signs, empty snail shells in abundance along the swampy water’s edge. But for as many times as I have visited this same place, Otter herself was nowhere to be found. Only remnants left, of a meal fit for a Queen, cracked shells popping and crunching beneath my feet.
Enchantment can come about in the form of a happenstance encounter, one that might not be so serendipitously coincidental for a wild woman who needs Otter energy at this time. Peace is the word best described for this wild place I have loved since childhood. It’s what I can’t help but feel every time I am there. I breathe it in. I fill my lungs with it – all damp earth and fresh pine. And there she happened to be, this symbolic representation of joy, of tranquility, gliding flawlessly towards a cluster of cattails, just around the bend.
Hiking in the rain is akin to hiking after a powdery snowfall. Much like its frozen counterpart, the rain shrouds a forest in stillness, something rarely found in the buzzing heat of a summer day. Precipitation brings about a special kind of peace and solitude, something that can only accompany inclement weather.
The fallen leaves, soaked through to the soil below, glisten their reds, yellows, and oranges amidst the patches of once green ferns, now lemon and rust, that sway in a gentle breeze which sweeps the forest floor, almost as silent as you. A woman can move without a sound amid the dank and decomposing deciduous confetti beneath her boots.
The moss, at the water’s edge, swollen with the last two days of rainfall, becomes a lush and loamy tapestry beneath her feet, flattening underfoot, and then slowly rising once again to resume its luxuriant form as the boot lifts away. The Sphagnaceae reminiscent of Lewis Carroll’s Mome Raths.
The scent of damp, dark earth surrounds her. If only, she thinks to herself, there was a way to bottle it and keep it, breathing in its elemental magic, infused with the kind of healing properties she will find nowhere else but here, in this moment. Under the trees, the scent of pine rises up to greet her from the fallen needles below.
The birds flit and flutter at ground level. Are you a warbler, little friend? She sees you there, peeking through the thick bramble of the low lying shrubs, with your white underbelly, dusty gray body, and bright splash of lemon. Little bird who is quick-footed and fast to fly, always outwitting the curious observer longing for a proper identification of her allusive feathered forest companion.
White-breasted Nuthatches dance on the thick trunks and bare branches of the mighty Eastern White Pine. A crow calls in the distance overhead, obscured by the overcast sky – a body-less caw on the wind.
Around the bend, where the stream flows to greet the lake, the swamp smells of fish, so intrusive in the misty air, it’s as if she is holding a fresh catch right there in her own two hands.
All the autumnal browns of the lake and swamp vegetation that are making their transition into death are heightened by the muted gray backdrop of a sunless, fog-laden sky. The perfect contrast.
It’s as if she and this wild place have been plucked straight from the vastness of the world and gently tucked inside a water globe. The dense fog is the frost-covered glass of the dome, the gods giving it a shake so that a gentle rain falls all around her, dampening the intrusive sounds of an outside world she can no longer see.
Tiny droplets pool at the sharp edge of a pine needle, pulling and drooping the bundles down towards the ground. The fallen bundle together in pockets and coves to create a golden mosaic that floats and swirls atop a calm, reflective canvas. There is the pitter patter drum beat of droplets as they hit the water’s surface, creating ripples and waves that draw her into a state of soothing meditation.
She, and this swath of forest, lake, and swamp, are encased in a fog-laden wonderland of a grand and wild design.
As a child, I preferred the language of the forest. It spoke to me in a way that I understood much easier than the language of man.
I never had difficulty finding my sense of belonging among the wild things, tucked away in wild places.
I welcomed the quiet comfort it brought. The peace. The solitude. A freedom I found no where else. It shut out the noise of hurriedness. Of expectation. Of judgement. Of hurt. Of ridicule. Of rejection. Of things I didn’t understand.
I never feared the creatures who crossed my path, both large and small. It always felt like we had an unspoken understanding between us. Meeting the gaze of a wild animal was something magical. The fleeting moments of shared personal space was something to treasure, not fear. I would always say quietly, “Don’t go. Please stay with me awhile. I won’t hurt you.”
Where society was busy, loud, obnoxious, rude, judgemental, confusing, and scary, the forest was a sanctuary I could disappear in, getting lost on purpose.
I felt most alone in the crowded spaces that tried to tame my wild heart. That wouldn’t let me be me. That threw me in boxes I didn’t belong in. That trapped me and tried to break me.
this wild thing, ltd 