The Pine Song

When I was a young lad I would listen to my dad tell of his time in the woods hunting and fishing. When I got old enough I started wandering into the swamp behind our house in Illinois. It was just a one acre wooded puddle but it was the great outdoors to me. Later on when I joined the Boy Scouts my outdoor world really opened up. Camping or hiking throughout the state and even a canoe trip to Canada. I enjoyed the woods.

Then, in high school I took an American Literature class taught by Miss Zimmerman. In her class I was introduced to Henry David Thoreau for the first time. I read “Walden”. I read “Civil Disobedience”. I was hooked. Thoreau touched me in such a way that my woods roaming was never the same. The woods stopped being a bunch of trees in which I played. They became living poetry.

But as with all youthful tales, I grew up. My trips to the woods became more infrequent until they stopped altogether. I became one of those men Thoreau said “were leading lives of quite desperation”.

Years later, when we lived in Manito, Illinois, my wife Mary started playing cards with “the girls” once a month. Since there was a nice state forest outside of town I decided on those days to renew my woods roaming again. The effect was like giving sweet water to a thirsty man. I drank deep. My parched soul was renewed. I started looking forward to Mary’s cards with the girls. Then there was that day…….

I park my truck at the usual spot. It’s November and there’s a nip in the air. It wasn’t quite misting. I wouldn’t call it a fog. It felt like a cloud had settled on the ground for a rest. Haversack and canteen on my shoulder. Staff in my hand. I step onto the trail. It was the Red Trail once again. An old familiar trail for an old familiar walk. But not today. Today was different. The cloud had changed the woods. The first part of the trail lead through the Oaks. Their leaves scattered about. Rice Krispies we call them because they go snap, crackle and pop when you walk on them. But the cloud had quieted them down. I make little noise as I start my walk. Nothing stirs. Not even the squirrels. I’m the only thing moving. My pace slows. I cast my eyes right then left and occasionally down my back trail. A queer feeling grows in my mind. I almost bolt for the truck. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me”. Stealing myself I walk on. The oaks mark my progress. Their bare branches spray out like giant spiders, swaying in the wind, waiting to pounce. Mighty is their presence. Masters from root to twig. But solitary. Though hundreds, thousands strong they each stand alone. They let me pass unmolested.

Where the trail cuts a fire break I pause. After the oppression of the oaks I should be happy for the open fire lane but the openness worries me. I’ll be exposed as I cross. Who’s watching me. Looking up and down the lane I search for watchers. Guardians to prevent my escape from the oaks. Or to prevent me from entering beyond. The other side is a giant pine phalanx. The trail leads into it’s dark opening. I am drawn towards it. Glancing side to side I trot across the fire lane. I enter The Pines.

After a few paces I stop and check my Six. What is wrong with me? The feeling of Presence is growing. I feel I’m not alone.

Generations ago these pines were planted in straight rows north, south, east and west. In the ensuing years they have grown straight and touching the sky. I’m standing in a Cathedral of trees. Their trunks are pillars holding up a ceiling of green. The lowest branches are high over my head. Pine needles lay in a carpet inches thick.

Silently I move on. My footsteps not making a sound. The wind plays it’s tune and the Pines begin to sing. The sound is soothing like a lullaby. Time slows, I move slow. Then I reach my goal.

A few hikes before I found this place. A bowl, a depression 100 yards across where the pines thin a little but the canopy still covers. The ceiling of boroughs even higher here. Today with the cloud it takes on mystical powers. It reminds me of a Fairy Circle. Where unwary travelers enter in and never return. Held captive by the Fairies for all time. It beckons me. I enter into this alter area, this Holy of Holies, in this cathedral of Pines.

Along the path reclines one of the Patriarchs of the forest laid down by time. I set down and rest on his back. Closing my eyes I listen to the Pine Song. Each branch plucked by the wind. The creaking trunks joining in. Time stops. Eternity in a heartbeat. There is a brush on my cheek and I am back among the pines. Their song has stopped. The cloud has lifted back to the heavens. Time and the world have returned. My heart aches.

At the edge of the bowl I turn and look back. Like Conway in “Lost Horizon” I wonder if I’ll ever see my Shangri-La again. Bowing my head I turn and walk away. I have returned to this spot a few times since but it’s not the same. The magic is not there as I set upon the log longing for a touch that will not come. The world is not the same. The Pine Song has changed it all.