Parksland: Pt II

2022-09-16

This a post in the “Georgia and Back” series, placed back into the time sequence, like Parksland Pt.I. We are at the Parkland Retreat Center, we left off here:

Parksland Retreat Center Pt.I

Friday Sept. 16th. Morning:

The temperature has been good all night. So, no clothing needed. We slept under our down quilt. With body heat, it felt ideal, bare legs hanging out creating a nice fresh draft in the morning.

I got up once, just naked in the night air and the smell of the forest. I couldn’t see many stars. There is just too much canopy up there, as the trees cover the steep hillsides of this canyon passage. I did enjoy the moon and one planet, a very bright Jupiter, seemingly nearby. The tree’s moon shadows were fun.

This morning, I lie comfortably in the fresh air, as it passes through the net tent. Outside, it acts like rain and there is a cloud above. Should we put the tent cover on? As I lazily watch, the rain only comes from the trees anytime the breeze blows. It’s just the moister and condensation dripping off of a leaf and falling from upon high. This isn’t Arizona humidity.

Sometimes, the slightest burst of airflow is followed by an errant brown leaf. I listen to a bird call and the cricket’s occasional claims. Generally, it is so silent, it is not to be heard, but to be felt. Here lies the still sound of peace. It is in-between sounds, permeating everything including myself. I noticed it last night, as I played a few licks on my guitar. When I stopped, it seemed to amplify the calm silence of the forest. I’ve decided today, to just let the guitar sit in its canvas case and honor it.

The light is directed by a huge cathedral-like canopy of Alabama pillars. Trees are like tall ship masts. Light is reduced to shadows with beams spotlighting the verdant foliage.

In the morning, the humidity had me thinking that there was fog, but it was a sleepy fool’s dirty glasses.

The stream meanders by, a flat sheet, with occasional ripples of a single bug. Where water reflects the golden hews of light, a floor of glowing flat sheets of rocks are arranged in various sizes. Sometimes this morning presents a haze and a hint of a rainbow above the brook. Eventually, the haze has gone, rising away.

It is pleasure on that rock in that creek. I revisit it, and then later again. But a body has a need to move. It’s what it does. A verdant sprig attached to moss, moss attached to rock. In the stream things will grow in place.

Me, I’ve got to move.

I get up, climbing through the opening in the tent’s net. Sun’s warmth and air all over in a wonderful real living sense of naked and natural, I’m soon struck, impressed by the abundance.

Rustling leaves above, reflected in still water, verdant glitter and that calm.

We have the day to spend at Parksland Retreat Center. We’re open to anything. We decide to take a short walk out the trail by the creek-side from camp, just to see what’s there.

We soon discover a sort of road near a National Forest Service Border sign.

Nearby, the retreat has made its own mark, matching legitimate importance.

Up above, we hear a passing truck on a dirt road. It is the third of the day. Somebody is probably going to work. It’s a laid back rush hour, country styled.

We take a look across the creek for rocks to cross on, but find none. We decide to explore and cross as best as we can. After crossing to the other side, in wet feet, we discover that there are lots of big ones just downstream that we missed.

We begin wandering up the hill to the “Ridgeline Trail” which is marked by blue tape and paint on trees.

One thing leads to another. The short walk begins to seduce us into a longer one.

We have some water and a camera with us. Complete lack of clothing will be just fine. There is enough protective shade here in the forest. This trail, we have been told, is supposed to lead to the other side where that swimming hole sits. We’ll have a spontaneous adventure.

Among the numerous little sights along the way, there are hundreds of mushrooms. They are various and frequent. Here are a few:

We have to watch the trail’s floor, so as to not step on the abundance of mushrooms and life.

We duck a spider’s web which is draped across the trail shinning in the sun. We are careful under this first one, polite and reverent, so as not to disturb the dedicated creature. Soon, we realize that there are many more. Spider webs are too numerous. They are invisible for the most part. Leading, I get tired of finding my bare body in a cobweb every several steps. Our delicacy is left behind, least we spend a long icky afternoon out here.  Rather than that, we use a magic wand to swish webs away.

The webs have magic, as whenever I relax, letting down my guard, I get nailed by another one. The timing seems impeccable. They always show up and I’m caught in a net, when I get lax. They continue during the entire journey. My swishing arm gets tired and DF takes the lead.

We find a profile of an old man’s face, manifesting a tree’s personality, ready to talk to us. It is burl and bark.

This is a place of sojourn.

This is an escape into another world, to be taught. I am taught about breath. I learn what it is to be living in this body. I feel air currents, pockets of warm and cool, shade to sunlight. Smells are noted. Some are stunning. Magnificence grabs us and stretches our necks.

Biodiversity constantly entertains.

Silence brings a special peace and silence is broken with a startling jolt.

We know where we are going, but we don’t know when. In the meantime, there is only a very fun place in the present.

Cobwebs seem never ending.

Occasionally, a flower’s color stands out in the more earthy greens and browns. Some are intricate and amaze us, despite their diminutive scope.

Wandering deeper into the forest, one thing still leads to another. We are ill prepared, naked, yet by that, there is freedom. We don’t get tired, just one fascination leading to the next. We don’t know how far we have to travel, but that’s okay, it can’t be too much and currently, this just feels good.

The carefully spaced blue tape and paint markers on the trees along the trail keep us secure. The trail isn’t that frequently used and disappears at times, looking like a more virgin forest. Perhaps Virginia wasn’t named after a queen, after all.

A butterfly flutters in search, grabbing our attention. Alabama has some very different species.

Storms, hurricane remnants, have come through this northern region of the state on occasion. We find a venerable old tree ripped out by its roots.

The trail skims the National Forest. An official “Bearing Tree” sign pops out. We don’t find these in Arizona.

I eventually see the creek below us down a steep hillside. We know that the end is near, but there will still be some switchback. At this time, we meet a young couple heading up the hill in the opposite direction.  As we greet them, she smiles at our nudity. We probably send a message of comfort and safety advertising the trail loop. Later, we’ll see them both similarly attired emerging from the other trailhead.

We pass the spider stick, the wand, to them. We have spent two hours in a nice walk in a wonderland.

We stop to rest and enjoy the swimming hole.

Rustling leaves above, reflected in still water, verdant glitter. Peaceful people arrive soon after. It has been two hours, a nice walk. It has been certainly not as rocky as the Rockies. We step through the collection of rocks, similar to abalone, mica, pearl and salmon and climb that steep hill again. It’s time for an omelet lunch.

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