Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. – Henry David Thoreau
A walk in the woods for me is a journey of discovery, both of self and the natural world. Often, I pause to take in the moment, explore its meaning and listen to its song. Perhaps it is the wind blowing through a stand of pines, the soft babble of a small woodland stream, the rain falling on the leaves lying on the woodland floor, the birds flitting through the branches of the trees, the hoot of a barred owl, who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-you-aaaaalllll, or the howl of a distant coyote. Each experience in the woods builds upon the last and strengthens the inseparable bond I have with nature.
You can follow a woodland stream uphill in Brown County State Park until you reach the point it emerges from the underlying rock. It is there that the soft trickle of water begins its long journey to the sea. But it isn’t the thought of those distant shores that occupies me; it is just this small stream descending through these woods, its soft currents gliding gently over the 250 million year-old Mississippian age sandstones. This small stream has more allure to me than a river cascading through the granite of some distant mountain range. It is what lies immediately under my feet, over my head, and in my mind that holds the most allure. This is my home ground, the place where my boot soles have collected the most dirt, where my experiences always create a flood of memories, where my flesh and bones belong.
In late fall and early winter the character of this small woodland stream lies hidden from view, bone dry and buried under a blanket of leaves. It isn’t until the ground freezes and snowmelt and rain begin to push the leaves downstream that its hidden beauty will be revealed. The work of ages soon becomes apparent; stones of different shapes and sizes fill the streambed with a variety of colors, each created over millions of years by the interaction of the sandstone with water and minerals. The reds, browns, and tans of these stones creates an endless canvas of color; each square foot, each yard as unique as a fingerprint, a ribbon of color wandering through the woods. The crystal clear water flowing over the bedrock shelves creates small cascades adding to the beauty of the woods.
It is humbling to pick up a stone from the stream and hold it in my hand and gaze upon 250 million years of the earth’s past. At the same time, I gaze upon the buds on the trees, the wildflowers waiting to bloom, all the new growth that spring will soon bring to the woods, a reminder of new life, of new possibilities. I also think of the stone and each single grain of sand within it and the ripples that fade away after I drop it in the stream. These things remind me that in the end I am like a grain of sand, a small ripple in time disappearing into eternity. Before I fade away, will I look back and know that I dove deeply into my life’s stream, went down to its depths, and explored its deepest currents? Or, when I finally wash up on some distant shore will I have left these things unexplored, will I have left the stones in my stream unturned?
