Walks in the Woods
Atlanta, GA
January 29, 2022
With the leaves gone, we see less of the trees and more of the forest. And sometimes far beyond. The last couple weeks, I’ve had more time to look.
Free from the tedium of Zoom meetings, customer negotiations, and powerpoint presentations, I’ve had a chance to come up for air…and to to see which way the wind is blowing.
The last couple years, the gale has been persistent, and usually in our face. But the last few weeks, it’s begun to swirl. Each day I try to venture out, to see where it will carry me next.
Like many of us, we take for granted appealing attractions near our home. Locals famously avoid tourist sites, or assume they can visit them whenever they want, so they never do. But they also overlook hidden gems, even after they’ve been uncovered.
Such a jewel lies within a few blocks of our house. It’s been there forever, right on the surface, in plain sight…and regularly neglected. Last week, I decided to start taking notice.
One advantage of being surrounded by a forest is we often forget we’re in a city. Given my growing inclination for seclusion and quiet…and the disturbing trajectory of many urban areas…that’s appealing.
Atlanta nestles at the base of the Appalachians, in the rolling hills of the Georgia piedmont. Trees cover the landscape, and the Chattahoochee carves it.
From its source in the Blue Ridge, the river wends southwest, filling Lake Lanier and sending to Atlanta whatever remnant Buford Dam permits.
Passing north of the city, the Chattahoochee veers south near Columbus, from which for a couple hundred miles it separates Georgia from Alabama. At the Florida line, it merges with the Flint River to form the Apalachicola, which crosses the panhandle, and empties into the Gulf.
For a brief stretch, the Chattahoochee drains our neighborhood, and is easily accessible from it. But few people go. As one who cherishes the solitude of the quiet acres along it’s wooded banks, I’m glad they don’t.
Still, I can’t understand why so many harried people avoid this convenient respite from a hectic world. And I wonder this as one who’s spent most of twenty years within walking distance, yet among the deprived ranks of those who were never there.
The Chattahoochee Recreation Area comprises a couple dozen distinct parcels along the river as it passes toward and thru the Atlanta area. A few of these patches are near us. But one beckons from only half a mile away.
Tucked inconspicuously off the two-lane road by which it is accessed, its sylvan seclusion is instinctively appealing, and a probable reason it is routinely ignored. More prominent signage has lately attracted larger crowds, but only on weekends is the small parking lot regularly full.
I avoid the parking lot, and the weekends. From our house, a fifteen minute walk brings us to the trailhead. From there, several forks, loops, branches, and paths extend for miles thru the trees, across ridges, and along the river. Most days, I’ve had it almost all to myself.
One afternoon last week, I walked several miles along the wooded trails, and never saw a soul. But I had plenty of company. Hawks hovered overhead, peering toward the occasional rabbit, squirrel, or chipmunk that scampers insensible across the forest floor, oblivious to the looming threat that circles above.
Or perhaps they’re well aware of the persistent danger, but instinctively understand it’s a part of their life. So they live with it…as long as they can.
They must smile at the sanctimonious biped who occasionally condescends to wander into their world. He seems at once self-assured, and utterly lost.
As the critters follow their guts to scrounge for meals and get where they go, the two-legged intruder follows a prescribed path, pausing only to notice them or enjoy the view. But he rarely leaves his designated trail, doubts the directions he’s been given, or questions the place he’s expected to go.
As he progresses thru the forest and toward the river, he walks almost mindlessly, as if he doesn’t know where he’s going while assuming he’ll somehow get there. And, more often than not, he does.
Thoughtless routine propels him forward, carrying him over the hills, around the laid-out loop…and back where he started. The next day he returns, and does it again.
But every once in a while, he is startled from his stupor. Last Wednesday, about midway thru his walk, a coyote crossed his path. He initially thought he’d encountered a wolf, as this canine seemed too large and majestic to be part of the coterie of mangy coyotes that have inhabited this area the last couple decades.
But rare as an attractive coyote might be, a Georgia wolf is rarer still. As the creature straddled the trail, he stared at the man who’d suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
They were about thirty feet apart, and neither felt endangered. Coyotes seldom harm humans, and this one was too far away to be perceived as a threat. But the man was close enough to get a good look, and to confirm this wasn’t a wolf.
Realizing the person on the path was neither predator nor prey, the animal turned his head, and walked casually into the woods. I walked ahead, following the creature with my eyes, till he wandered over the ridge and out of sight.
But as I continued along, my eyes were no longer confined to the predictable path. Having received a surprise, I found myself searching for others. Aside from a deer in the distance about a mile up the trail, nothing out of the ordinary intervened in the rest of my walk.
But when I returned the next day, my eyes stayed open, and my head on its swivel. I took different trails, and sought new scenes…even if they were the same ones I seen the previous day. I reversed my route, looked left, right, and up as often as I peered forward or down.
Perspective is important. It’s not always what we see, but how we see it. And when.
Ages, centuries, generations, and lives move in cycles, rhythms, and flows. In a couple months, the bare limbs I see thru today will again begin to obscure our view. As days lengthen and temperatures rise, thick foliage will block visibility and shield the sun.
Further ahead, a Fall breeze will blow brisk, and shadows will stretch. As they do, leaves will dry, assume their autumnal hue, and float lazily to the ground, to be trampled in their grave by next winter’s wanderer. The path proceeds, and the loop continues.
As The Byrds sang in Ecclesiastes, for everything there is a season. For birthing and dying, reaping and sowing, bulls and bears, freedom and force, yin and yang. Even if the stew is the same, the seasoning changes…whether we taste it or not.
Most days we see nothing new. But blessed are those when we see everything anew.
JD
