Alone In The Woods
There is a road among the redwoods, paved but blanketed in pine needles, that climbs up and over and down a hill overlooking the ocean. The road itself is set high up a hillside. On spring mornings, mist and fog and bird calls mingle, and the ground is gradually mulching fallen leaves into something that sprouts fungi and moss. I've been up and down this road for the past 29 years, under my own power for the majority of it.
I remember sitting besides a great friendly bear of a grandfather in our rain jackets on a wooden bench beneath a tree at the end of the road, awaiting the mail carrier's jeep to break the silence of a morning empty of cars. I don't remember sleeping in a drawer in a small house at the top of the hill, but I suppose I did all the same.
New houses have emerged from the forest floor, particularly over the last couple of years. New driveways, new fences. It isn't quite as empty and quiet of a road anymore.
This morning I hiked up the road beneath a sharply blue sky with just a few wisps of fog clinging weblike to the upper tree branches. When I had checked my cell phone coverage at the one spot on the hill where I get service, and when I found I had no text messages, I struggled bravely on.
I walked down to the crossroads, turned around, and came back. It was a quiet morning, and I saw no one, until I walked past a man in a cap and jean jacket watering a well-manicured lawn that looked strangely out of place in the wild brown and moss of the surrounding houses.
"Good morning," I called.
"Who are you?"
"Excuse me?"
"WHO are you?"
"I'm ---- --------'s grandson. And I've been coming out here for thirty years. How about you?" I didn't say the last part, but I wanted to.
He shrugged, apparently satisfied that I wasn't going to snap and rob him.
He went back to spraying a fan of water over his lawn, and I walked on down the hill.
It's a discordant note to think that people are moving into these small communities and bringing their suspicions with them. I think that's part of the problem of sub-divisions and development. The more people who arrive, the fewer people you know.
I remember sitting besides a great friendly bear of a grandfather in our rain jackets on a wooden bench beneath a tree at the end of the road, awaiting the mail carrier's jeep to break the silence of a morning empty of cars. I don't remember sleeping in a drawer in a small house at the top of the hill, but I suppose I did all the same.
New houses have emerged from the forest floor, particularly over the last couple of years. New driveways, new fences. It isn't quite as empty and quiet of a road anymore.
This morning I hiked up the road beneath a sharply blue sky with just a few wisps of fog clinging weblike to the upper tree branches. When I had checked my cell phone coverage at the one spot on the hill where I get service, and when I found I had no text messages, I struggled bravely on.
I walked down to the crossroads, turned around, and came back. It was a quiet morning, and I saw no one, until I walked past a man in a cap and jean jacket watering a well-manicured lawn that looked strangely out of place in the wild brown and moss of the surrounding houses.
"Good morning," I called.
"Who are you?"
"Excuse me?"
"WHO are you?"
"I'm ---- --------'s grandson. And I've been coming out here for thirty years. How about you?" I didn't say the last part, but I wanted to.
He shrugged, apparently satisfied that I wasn't going to snap and rob him.
He went back to spraying a fan of water over his lawn, and I walked on down the hill.
It's a discordant note to think that people are moving into these small communities and bringing their suspicions with them. I think that's part of the problem of sub-divisions and development. The more people who arrive, the fewer people you know.
posted by Devin at 11:37 PM
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