Winter Hike

When the fields are bare and hard with frost and the woods are free of nettles and light is clear through open treetops, it is the best time for hiking. A couple of weeks ago at Valley Forge Park I walked through the first snow of the season, feeling small in a white and black landscape. The wind and cold and the wide spaces whittled down my worries and questions about my changing life.

My sister asked later if there were ghosts, and at first I answered that our father always hikes with me. Then I realized she meant the freezing and dying soldiers of the American Revolution. So many wasted lives in wars, such an inefficient way to solve problems. Yet if they had not fought we wouldn't be here today. These ghosts were mostly trying to survive; I suspect that ideals aren't much comfort in the face of pain and death. It's hard to imagine the fear and chaos that was in this well kept park where people come to run and exercise their dogs.

I like to leave the paths and strike out over the fields. Our father hated trails and hated returning by the same way he had come. We followed him at our peril, ready for branches and thorns to snap back at us, taking pride in keeping pace with him. His most perilous hikes-"swamp hopping" with his teacher buddies-we never got to share. He did his duty his whole life, supporting the family; he needed the times of danger and adventure.

My friend Mary and I did a young girls' version of those hikes, in the woods on her family's farm. In summer the nettles were six feet high, but in winter and fall the woods were ours, creek and fallen trees and swampy cornfields. We couldn't really get lost-you'd come upon a road or neighboring field eventually- but it felt large to us, and we were on our own, dealing with obstacles, getting scratched and happily filthy. It has stood us well to know what we can overcome.

When Dad was finally free of responsibilities, he didn't get much time before the Parkinson's diagnosis.Still and sadly, he always had the urge to move. I appreciate every chance I have to stride out somewhere in the kind of rough terrain that doesn't allow me to think tangled thoughts. I have to pay attention to each footstep, feel the roots and the earth.