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Briefly Lost

Briefly Lost

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I started off slowly yesterday, as if I knew the walk would be longer than usual. It was one of those sultry afternoons that envelops you in summer, humid without being oppressive, full-bodied and yet (to me at least) still comfortable. 

The Glade Trail beckoned, cool and single-minded, one long tunnel of green. I took it to the Cross-County Trail and then to Lake Audubon.

I had strolled around Lake Audubon before and knew you could not circumnavigate it, but I tried again anyway, knowing it would spit me out somewhere. And it did — only at first I had no idea where that somewhere was. Was it a neighborhood near the pool? A development near the shopping center? 

For a moment, I had to get my bearings. For a moment, I was lost. 

But I turned the way I thought I should, and there, on my right, was the Montessori School, a marker. Nowhere near where I thought I would be. But somewhere I knew, just the same. 

Mixing it Up

Mixing it Up

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Walking yesterday I found myself going the “wrong” way on familiar routes. I was, without intending to when I began, mixing it up. 

Down West Ox and into Franklin Farm, striding down the shady path into the neighborhood instead of out of it, as I usually do. From there to Dower House Drive, and only picking up the open trail when I got to Flat Meadow.

One of the last times I was in this area the walking paths were being repaved, and I was chased away by a small tar-roller machine. This time it was quiet, a Sunday morning, fresh and cool after days of oppressive humidity. 

The trail was open, the way was clear. I need to mix it up more often. 

Drive to Walk

Drive to Walk

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Now that I have a little more time on my hands (emphasis on “a little” … but I’ll talk about that in another post), I often drive to walk. That’s drive to walk, not to work.

Before, I had meetings and deadlines that meant I would slip out of the house with 30 or 40 minutes only. No time for the 10-minute drive to my favorite Reston trail — only enough to get me up and down the main drag of my neighborhood.

Which is not a bad stroll. In fact, it’s still my go-to favorite, with houses and people I know and a path so familiar I could probably trudge it in my sleep.

But now I can mix it up a little, even though that means indulging in the great suburban irony — driving … to walk. 

(Bridge over Glade Creek on one of my favorite drive-to trails.)

A Constant

A Constant

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Morning on the Hunter’s Woods Trail: Mozart in my ears, details in my brain, details I hoped would filter away like a dusting of snow through trampoline mesh. And the rhythm of footfall did clarify the day; it reminded me of what is most important, which is to live fully when and where we are.

I was aided in this by the appearance of wildlife: first, a fox sauntering down the trail ahead of me and then, on the drive home, a wild turkey beside the road, bobbing its head as it fled into the woods.  

The critters pulled me into the present and away from the fact that this is a departure day, which is not nearly as nice as an arrival day. 

But the warmth is finally here, and the day is as perfect in its way as the cold, windy Thursday that brought her here. Both days are required, one for coming, the other for going — with the walks a constant between the two. 

The Newcomer

The Newcomer

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A walk in Reston yesterday, parking in my new spot, taking the trail that starts at the recycling bins (lovely!) but picks up in attractiveness from there. It’s a great find, this trail, because it begins so close to my house and connects with long favored paved paths. 

I’m still learning about this trail in winter, marveling at just how close the houses are, discovering one of those little free libraries along the way and finding a route with a slight rise in the middle (perfect for upping my heart rate).  

There’s a bounty to seasonal openness — to see far ahead, to spot the flash of a robin in the holly, to feel for a moment that expansiveness winter offers. 

It’s plain this will become a favorite, part of the deck I choose from when deciding which strip of asphalt to amble. I’m always glad to welcome another.

Turning Back

Turning Back

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A hike yesterday on less familiar ground, light slanting low from the late-afternoon sun. Only a short way down the trail came a fast-moving stream and what was billed as a “rock crossing” on the map but which was in fact a few slick stepping stones spread far apart and barely peaking their razor-thin edges above the rushing water. 

The first few stones of the crossing looked treacherous but feasible. If they weren’t so moss-slicked I could see getting across them. But then I’d be in the middle of the creek, and, from what I could tell, stranded. I could see only the barest, thinnest edges to the mostly submerged rest of the stone crossing. 

Feeling distinctly wimpy, I turned back. I don’t like turning back; it goes against my nature. So I found a side path to explore. It followed the stream for a few minutes, close enough to glimpse an ancient roadbed (see above), which seemed part of an old watercourse. 

I felt better, realizing that waterworks would have remained hidden had we taken the original crossing. And this morning, reading a description of this section of the Cross-County Trail, I felt even better about turning back. 

It describes a “stone crossing that is only usable during the low to normal stages of the creek.” The gurgling of the stream, its breadth and raucous rippling, made it clear that the creek was at a high stage creek, not low to normal.  

Perhaps I wasn’t as cowardly as I originally thought. Only prudent, even a bit adventurous. Ah, that’s better. 

The Pipeline Path

The Pipeline Path

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I wouldn’t want to live next to it, but the oil pipeline a couple miles from here has at least one thing to recommend it, and that is its paved path. I walked it on Saturday, right after mailing my letters.  Starting on McLearen, sun-warmed in the brisk air, I dipped off onto a trail I’d tramped long ago, turning left instead of right, navigating a fair-weather crossing right after a dog and his owner had just decided not to attempt it (the man was game but the dog was having none of it). 

From there it was just a bend and a hill-trudge from a buckled, fir-shaded, needle-strewn path along the greensward. Though I enjoy the meditative woods walk, there is much to be said for a stroll that skims the backs of houses. There’s an intimacy there you don’t find otherwise. 

I had a front-row seat on screened-in porches, knock-out roses and garden gates. There were trampolines, bird baths, even campaign signs. And on the path, a complement of fellow walkers who seemed as happy as I was to be alive and walking on such a fine fall morning.

Brilliant Green

Brilliant Green

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I walked outside today into a world of green, all shades of green. Dark firs, emerald hedges and verdant lawns, lush and mower-striped. Weeds are greening too, but I chose to ignore them this morning.

The lawn is an English invention, and it rains all the time in England. So said a gardening expert we talked to in early March before purchasing lime and seed. The message was, don’t worry too much about your lawn; it will never look good.

But this year the weather has been English and lawns are greening accordingly. Ah, but it does a soul good to see a lawn stretching from house to street — a greensward, a tribute, an invitation to doff shoes and run through it.

I see the point of a cottage garden, of a wild and natural look. But there’s something about a lawn, too. And there especially seemed to be something about it this brilliant green morning.

Long Woods Walk

Long Woods Walk

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Yesterday, I went out early for the weekly groceries, donned mask and gloves, observed social distancing, came home and wiped everything off before putting it all away and then decided …  I needed a walk. And not just any walk — but a long woods walk.

I took a Reston path that leads to the Cross County Trail. It’s a section of the CCT that I often stroll, but yesterday I went further, into a place where the first sign you see warns you of snakes in the area.

It’s a fitting intro to a wilder, more hike-like area. It was easy to imagine I was miles away not just from desk and to-dos — but also from the section of trail I just covered.

I nodded to a father and two sons jogging down the trail; to a man and his children who were exploring ants on a log; and to several others out enjoying the sun and pretending this was an ordinary spring Friday.

The music in my ears seemed redundant, so I pulled out the buds and listened to woodpeckers and robins. I stopped on a bridge over the Snakeden Branch Stream and heard the water talk to itself. How lovely and clear it looked as it tumbled over rocks, all white and frothy as it landed.

It was almost two hours later when I got back to the car. The walk had turned into a hike. The day seemed larger and brighter than it had before.

Frosted Fields

Frosted Fields

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An early walk on a Reston trail, one of my favorites. This is a paved path that winds between backyards and parkland before connecting with the Cross-County Trail. It’s cool and enticing in the summer because of the tall oaks that shade it — and no less lovely in the winter.

It was a quiet amble —  not a soul about — and the stillness rang in my ears. Birds fluttered in the hedges, and the stream, normally gurgling, was quiet in the cold. It was chilly, so I walked fast from the get-go, flipping up the hood on my parka and balling up my fists inside old gloves.

But three quarters of the way down on the left, I had to stop. The wetland landscape there was transformed by frost. Matted grasses gleamed with white and broken tree trunks loomed above them. There was thin ice where the creek water ponds and a monochromatic beauty throughout.

Beauty is always welcome, but never more than when it is unexpected.