It was a beautiful Tuesday morning, so after I saw my daughters off to school, I headed for one of my favorite spots in southern Indiana. Passing through the covered bridge at the north entrance to Brown County State Park, I entered my sanctuary from the world, my sanctum sanctorum. I headed for Weed Patch Hill and Trail 10, or what I have always referred to as the Fire Tower Trail as it begins behind that landmark. I put on my pack, silenced my cell phone, entered the woods and left my troubles behind for the rest of the morning.
For many years, I had let the sun chase me out of bed and into the office, but now I let it chase me into the woods. It is here that I coax out thoughts about life and nature that I eventually shape into words. I no longer concern myself with how to survive in the for-profit world that too often treats a person as an expendable commodity. There were some who would brag about how many hours they worked or how many miles they traveled on their latest business trip. They wore it like a badge of honor won on the battlefield of business. What injury did they sustain in their effort? How many long hours, miles of asphalt, airport bars, hotel rooms, and neon is it worth? Perhaps one day they will finally discover their fatted calf, but then won’t have the strength to celebrate.
The drive from my door to the park entrance is 23 miles and it takes about 30 minutes. I dare say I get more out of those miles and minutes than I ever got out of 1,000 miles and all those days chasing a dollar. So what lies at the end of these miles and minutes? Well, to begin with, 16,000 acres of hills, ridges, and ravines in which to “lose” myself. There are the hardwood forests, spring wildflowers, Strahl and Ogle Lakes, streams cascading down ravines in the spring, the howl of a coyote, the hoot of an owl, the fall colors, and the solitude of a winter hike. No, it’s not the Tetons but it wears its beauty proudly. I have experienced each of its seasons and have found beauty in even the smallest things. Whether hiking alone or with a kindred spirit, each experience is one of discovery.
But it is more to me than just the scenery, this place gives comfort to my spirit, it is my home ground, the place where my flesh and bones are rooted in the soil. It is a deeply spiritual place. When I am in these woods the trees embrace me as if I were family, the smells bring comfort like my mother’s kitchen, the sights are like a homecoming after a long journey, and the sounds are like a favorite song. I have walked through these woods when I was full of joy and sorrow, dealing with death and life. I have been here on a Christmas morning, a warm spring day, and on a cold winter night. I have broken bread here with friends and family. On this ground, I have celebrated my youth, welcomed middle age, experienced the depth and beauty of nature, and pondered over my remaining years. It is here that I feel more in the presence of God than in any church pew. One day, I will take my last walk on this ground and embark on that final adventure, but my spirit, chased by the sun, will linger in this place.
