I Took a Walk
January 19, 2024
Sunday morning. One week after the big ice and snow storm dropped a little over a foot of snow and blanketed everything in beautiful white. The temperatures through the week were such that very little melting had occurred in the absence of snow plows and road treatments.
One of my favorite locations is a secondary boat ramp at the south end of the lake. They lock the gate there until after sunrise, so I’ve made the 6/10th of a mile walk down and back many times. I’ve never done it in a foot of snow - until now.
I decided to try walking down, knowing that few, if any, humans had visited yet. I dreamed of little birdies playing in the snow and a frozen cove with who knows what kinds of ice sculptures. I may not have fully comprehended the challenge, but sometimes, that’s the only way we head off on the adventure.
I parked my car at the gate. As I stepped into the snow, I noticed footprints in front of me. The snow was still quite deep and had become more compact over the course of a week. Walking through it was a slog, but walking in the footprints was easier, even if this human had a longer stride than mine.
As I walked in the footprints, I thought about how often we walk in the footprints of unseen others—ancestors, people we’ve never met, and a myriad of others who have blazed the trail before us. Sometimes, we know we are following in their footsteps, and sometimes, we don’t realize it at all. Either way, the path is easier when we walk in the footprints of another.
I made it down to the elm tree on the hill. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to photograph her against such a beautiful blanket of snow, because I’ve never tried this walk before the road is accessible. How regal she looked against the pink morning sky!
As I passed the tree, the human footprints ended. Apparently, the other human thought this was a good place to turn around. Fortunately, the deer had left footprints I could continue to follow—not quite as easy as the human footprints, but easier than forging a new path of my own.
I can confirm that deer do not move in straight lines as their paths curved gently, this way and that, making their way down the road. The sun began to kiss the tops of the trees in front of me and I hoped I might see some of the deer, but I never did. It’s hard to approach quietly when you are tromping in snow.
As I reached the final bend in the road before the parking lot, the deer trail ended. I had a bit less than a quarter mile left, and I’d have to make my own trail from here. It was very quiet. Perhaps my bird friends were hiding in the bushes where it was warmer.
I made my way down to the edge of the lake. The cove was frozen with a light layer of snow dusted on top. The sun was coming up over the horizon, casting a pink and golden glow out across the ice. The quiet was astonishing. Even when there are no humans in this area, there are usually a lot of birds. The geese and ducks were much further up the lake, where it was still unfrozen, there were no crows or jays about, and the birds seemed to be sleeping in.
I looked to the north and saw a pair of adult eagles sitting in a tree, monitoring the open water. The eagles know they will see more ducks when the ponds and coves are frozen too. Eagles and photographers seem to like the same conditions at the lake.
I tromped through the snow as best I could to check out the ice and all the little sparkly things I could find in the snow. At this point I realized I was pretty tired - and I had to walk all the way back. Uphill.
As I started walking back, I realized just how difficult it was going to be. I thought I’d be able to walk in my own footprints, but it turns out my stride is shorter going uphill than downhill.
I had to go slow. I had to take a lot of breaks. I was breathing hard - but I did it. I still didn’t see many birds, but I finally found a few juncos about halfway back. I was glad to stop and take a break to photograph them.
Just as I reached the dry pavement in front of my car, I saw the little birds I had been looking for. A whole flock of sparrows, including six to ten fox sparrows! They were, wisely, foraging where the snow had melted under the trees. I’ve never seen so many fox sparrows!
As I laughed at the idea that I had slogged all that way and then found what I wanted in the easiest possible place, I thought of the line from Mary Oliver’s poem, “Wild Geese”:
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
I’m glad I made that walk. I’m grateful I was physically able to make that walk. I’m also glad to remember that I do not have to work that hard to find beauty. I know I wouldn’t have been in the perfect spot to see the sparrows at that exact moment if I hadn’t made that walk.
The next day, I went to a different spot, one that required only a tenth of a mile walk from the parking lot. I photographed little birds in the snow to my heart’s content. I tend to try too hard, to overdo, and try to “make things happen.” I also see that when I overdo it is ok, I can love that part of myself as well. Maybe sometimes the overdoing is just how things are meant to be.
Do you try too hard sometimes? And if you do, how might you soften and let things be easier?
Whatever your week holds, the words of my friend and Awareness through Movement teacher Barbara Anderson may help. She reminds us all the time to “try easier.”
What a beautiful walk. Thank you for taking me along.
What a lovely meditative walk this was for me. Thank you! I also love the idea of try easier.