OK. Long title, I know. It's also been a really long time since I posted anything. Bygones.
When I run in the swamps every week, it's a real spiritual time for me. Like John Muir, that's my church. It's common for me to come out with a revelation of some sort. Sometimes these are very profound, sometimes kind of silly...like the time I realized that "catch your breath" is exactly the opposite of what happens. More like we outrun our breath and it has to catch us. But no one says, "I have to stop and let my breath catch up." But I digress...
This week, the place was entirely deserted when I got there. Humans are usually pretty scarce when I go, but this day, there was not a sole around. That alone makes the wild places more majikal (my spelling distinguishes between the real otherworldy supernatural quality and the performance art). Things just come more alive, seriously, there's more animals visible, etc.
This time though, I was also wearing some natural bug repellent. With zika on the rise, I figured some form of protection might be prudent. But this stuff smelled intoxicatingly sweet, like standing in a field of wildflowers. If you haven't stood in a field of flowers and felt the light-headed giddiness of the perfumes, you don't know what you're missing.
So these two factors were making the place seem way more majikal than usual. I kept seeing shapes move in the periphery that were gone when I looked, hearing sounds that seemed to have no known cause, feeling chills and shivers, and I thought, it's easy to see why Romantics were so taken with the idea of Faeries. If they were real, this would be the time and place, you'd find them. I half expected to fall into a toadstool ring and find myself in different world. Or to stumble across a party of them and be whisked away into a some adventure.
Then I thought, well maybe they aren't real. But something sparked the notions, so perhaps other forms of being were actually afoot. That's when I quickly recognized the danger of courting spiritual forces, which I have ample experience with. So I turned my thoughts to God and thought whatever was up, He was in control of it. And I asked if I could meet anything like that. Just have a peek behind the veil for a moment. Then it occurred to me, that if I was asking for that, how much grander would it be to meet God himself moving through the swamp and how all it's glory would ignite with His presence reflecting and radiating through it.
That's when I felt the wind at my back. It's hard to describe. It's not there until I start running, and then I feel it pushing up from behind as well as running into it. Stop and it stops, start and it starts. In the extremely humid Florida swamps, much of this may be the very air flowing around me as I move through the thick vapor. But if I've learned anything from my predecessors, it's that one must never assume that because something has a rational explanation, it doesn't also have a majikal dimension, like Uncle George's faerie realms where every flower and sunbeam is a palpable metaphysical argument.
I say this because as the wind whips around me, I often feel it urge me on, like a ethereal being swirling and gamboling around me. I can almost hear it telling me to run. And then it struck me deep inside like God often does...crack...Divine Wind...boom...like lightening in my deep brain. What if that WAS God flowing around me. The Gentle Blowing. The Kurios Pnuema! And I whispered, "God show me."
I kept running. Through the hotter places, the new growth forest and the heat rippled sand flats. Eventually I made it to the edge of the swamp. Just like in a movie, this is the line where it goes from hot to cool, Sun to shade, open to heavily treed. This is my cathedral. Just in, I slowed and climbed the vine I usually scale. 4 meters up and then hang in the air. Then slow back down. It's my gate to the swamp, the antechamber of the sanctuary. If God was going to meet me, it would likely happen in there.
I slow to breath and cool down a minute, when out of nowhere I hear a clatter of bike wheels and a young muscular man with slightly long sandy brown hair erupts over a rise and cranks down hard. I stayed to the side of the trail. He made eye contact as soon as he came over the rise. As he passed he smiled a big knowing smile, gave half a nod, and blew past me down the trail.
I padded off behind him as he disappeared out of site. I thought how weird it was that he would come out of nowhere (usually I can hear them coming farther off) and was going so fast in that heat that far from an entrance, and the look on his face was not the usual polite trail greeting; almost a knowing smile. And then the second of my revelations hit me. Maybe that was Him!
As I ran, my intellect argued, "Come on, just some guy. He was probably smiling because you and he are the only crazy ones out here. Or he saw that we were half covered in dirt or something." But I answered myself, "Yeah, but how else would we expect Jesus to look if he was to show up out here?"
My intellect responded, "Good point."
So I continued, "Heck, for that matter, he could be anyone!"...crack...Angels unware...crackle...least of these...rumble...When did we see you...BA BOOOOOOMMMM...
My intellect, my soul, my skeptic, and all the other parts of me stopped in their tracks...Whoa...
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Monday, May 16, 2016
Monday, March 31, 2014
Majik...or something like it
People used to say that certain places had a strange effect on people. It's picked up in stories, novels, movies. There's a sort of Majik (I spell it this way to refer to the sublime natural sort of mysterious power as opposed to the trickery people do on stages or the evil sort of sorcery) that can make people get lost, hurt themselves, forget, disappear, or a variety of other things that vary in ominousity. I've long known that the further away from the things of man one goes, the closer to the Majikal, one gets. I've also always believed that many natural happenings are explained in a sort of mythical fashion as an innate way of transferring oral knowledge...like storytelling. Thus there is truth in many myths. Recently, I had occasion to take these beliefs out for a test run...Or rather I was tossed out of the boat with them, so to speak, and left to see what floats.
My bushcraft is pretty strong. I've been in the woods, swamps, oceans, mountains, all my life. Every week, I strip down to the barest means I can handle and run in the swamps that surround my area of Florida. Mostly this means me in a pair of shorts and some Feiyue Tiger Claws, (think shaolin shoes). Sometimes I ditch the shoes too. but no shirt, no phone. Just me. It's my time to "Walk with Him in the Garden". It's my truest house of worship, just like Jesus went up in the mountains or gardens to pray.
Over time, I've gotten to know my favorite spots. If you know the area, I start out in the Morris Bridge Trails. It's a dirt lot with a trail head that hikers and mountain bikers frequent. From there, I disappear into the woods, heading downhill into the slough, a ribbon like swamp of virgin cypress, elms, and other hardwoods. Half of the year, it's under water, but at this time of year, it's mostly dry. Trails slip through at various points, but in the deepest part, I frequently veer offtrail into the slough itself and "chase the spirits". Here I can hop the logs, balance across spans, dodge cypress knees, and let go. I'll frequently find myself exhausted and stop for a rest, where I encounter other denizens of the nonhuman sort. I've eavesdropped on a coversation between a mama raccoon and her two kids. Talked with otters, charged and been charged by hogs, hopped with deer, and angered a good deal of squirrels just by being in sight. I've also seen God part the veil and speak to me in amazing ways. I'm totally at ease here. I've even dozed off in the flowers once or twice.
After a bit, I'll make my way back to the trails and head back to civilization. On occasion I've overshot my mark and had to run around the long way to get back or popped out unexpectedly in a place I didn't realize I was heading to. But there are days, like this past Friday, where the world there is different.
This Friday, there was no sun. It's rare here in the Sunshine State, but we do get a few totally overcast days where the brightness of the sun is not discernible through the grey blanket. This day was one of those. It makes the colors of the swamp come alive. The greens and reds and yellows explode in vivid splashes. Particularly at this time of year, the open areas under the trees are a solid field of yellow asters, waist high. So on this day, I found a nice piece of chert, a type of flint. I decided to try napping it into a tool, like our ancestors did. So I plunged offtrail into the sea of yellow far enough to not be a distraction to the few bikers who might zip by on the trail in the early afternoon.
The smell of the flowers was dizzying. Bees swung around full and drunk. I found a large tree with a flat root, perfect as a base for chipping. I protected it with bark and went to work. In 15 minutes I had a useful hand ax and tried it on the branch of an elm sapling. It cut quite nice for my unexperienced hand. I then cached it and my striking stone in a hollow and headed back.
Running in the woods is different than walking. You aren't focused on the distance as much as the nearest step, because you have to adjust your foot placement rapidly to avoid the many obstacles. So it's common to zigzag a bit as you make your way back. So when I didn't hit the trail where I expected, I figured it turned and I overshot it, so I veered left to meet it again. Pretty soon, I realized, I must be much further east than I thought. The trail was just not there. The endless field of yellow was crisscrossed with hog and deer paths. I even woke up one sleepy pig who stuck himself under a log and had to frantically dig himself out while I stood overtop encouraging him. Nothing looked familiar, as it usually doesn't, so I just kept moving ahead thinking I'd hit the powerline eventually and work back that way.
About 30 minutes later, I hit a trail. OK, I thought. This must be my usual trail, just east of my turn, I've been there before when I overshoot, so I turned left and ran on. But pretty soon the trail widened and I began to see horse prints, then manure. I was in the Equestrian park to the south! As shocking as this may seem, to be heading south instead of north, it has happened before. That time, I fell asleep and then jumped up and ran the wrong way out. With no sun, I couldn't tell. But this time, I had not lost my orientation. I had distinctly headed back north from the tree, the way I had come in.
So these woods, must be the majik kind. It is a virgin swamp afterall. It's not the first time trails had seemingly moved on me in these kinds of places. But I could hear traffic, so I knew that must be the interstate. In a few minutes, I should pop out on the edge of the equestrian trails and could shoot back north through a familiar part of the slough. I ran on.
Then, I spotted the clearing. But beyond it was not the mound of spoil I expected by the canal. It was a house! OK, I must be still east where the houses come up to the equestrian park. I'll just head right and find the spoil. (Keep track of these directions and see if I'm not correct.)
Soon, I hit a fence and a street. There should be no street. The houses back right up to the park. I had no idea where I was and for the first time a larger than normal spookiness shot through me. Still, experienced, as I am, I simply slid through the barbed wire and looked for a street sign. 200 meters down, I found one...My blood chilled. I had no idea where this street was. I looked left, then right. I looked up at the grey blanket. I had no idea if I was looking north or south, east or west. I didn't know this street. It could be anywhere around a large range of wilderness. But not to panic. I could always swallow my pride and knock on a door to ask where I was. Then run very fast if the homeowner levelled a shotgun at the half naked man covered in mud and leaves on her porch. I listened and heard traffic again very close. I ran that way. Over a short rise, I could see it. It wasn't the interstate, so it had to be Fowler or Morris Bridge Rd. For those out of the area, these streets are on the south and north of the wilderness respectively. If Morris, I was closer to the parking lot than I thought. If Fowler, I had a long run back, but no big deal.
At the intersection, I was stunned again. This was neither of the streets I expected. This was US 301! This highway runs north on the eastern edge of the wilderness from east Tampa up into Zephyrhills. I hadn't crossed a river, or a road, so I had to be on the west side of the road. Plus cars were zipping from right to left, which at that time of day, must be northbound. But I had no idea how far along the road I was. I didn't recognize the intersection. So I turned right, or south (I hoped) since I was praying to be close to Fowler.
That's when I saw that I was north of County Road 579. Good grief, I was in Thonotosassa! I couldn't have gotten farther from where I wanted to be without crossing a major feature like a river or other blatant directional landmark. That takes a certain kind of bad luck; almost intentional. I didn't know where my little street went the other way, and didn't want to get twisted up in the swamp again this close to dusk, so I decided there was nothing to it, but to hoof it along the road.
I ran, and walked some, and struggled to find saliva in my now dry mouth. Then I ran some more, and some more. I couldn't buy a drink because I had no money. I couldn't go into a store because I had no shirt. I couldn't call anyone because my phone, along with my water, and wallet, were in the truck at the COMPLETELY OPPOSITE CORNER OF THE DANG WOODS!
Eventually I debated sneaking up to a house and swigging some water from a hose, but in that part of town, the thought of shotguns and dogs were quite real, especially for a half-naked, dirty, long-haired mutt like me. Of course, hospitality would have easily prompted anyone to spare me a cup if I'd asked, but I truthfully wasn't in that sort of need and didn't want to pretend to it, which would not only be dishonest, but would likely prompt them to also help me more than I wanted. So I followed the tenet of "get yourself in, get yourself out" and pressed on around the Big Top Flea Market and up the canal toward relief.
After one more short detour around the mouth of the creek I had started in, followed by one more quick twist of directions in the woods, I wound up right back on the canal where I gave up and decided to cross through the caretaker's property despite the glaring signs prohibiting it. Of course, right as I neared the sign on the far side of the property, my leg gave up and cramped. And of course right as I hobbled on past it, the caretaker's wife rolled up in her truck and asked me if she could help me in that tone that says, "you know you shouldn't be here." Having been thus humbled, I dropped my head and sheepishly declared I had gotten lost and just found my way out. She nodded understanding, asked if I was alright otherwise, to which I responded by pointing to my truck a few hundred meters away. She bid me a kind good day and I stumbled into the truck where I downed a bottle of water, answered some texts from my now worried wife, and drove home to a sick stomach, which was quickly cured with ample does of salt and simple carbs. The only lasting injury is my pride, and that's for the better.
In the end, I was in no real danger, other than being overly tired and late. I could find my way out to some point simply by following traffic noise, so I wasn't going to die in there. I had prayed for God to do with me what he wanted on that run and he obliged. I had asked for him to show me what he would, and he did. Once more, I learned about myself, both my abilities and my limits. I learned about His care for me, even in seemingly uncontrolled situations. And I learned that my granddad knew something when he said in his slingblade accent, " 'ere's sump'm in 'em 'oods a'makes ee'n 'em 'at knows 'eysef go a bit auter hids."
My bushcraft is pretty strong. I've been in the woods, swamps, oceans, mountains, all my life. Every week, I strip down to the barest means I can handle and run in the swamps that surround my area of Florida. Mostly this means me in a pair of shorts and some Feiyue Tiger Claws, (think shaolin shoes). Sometimes I ditch the shoes too. but no shirt, no phone. Just me. It's my time to "Walk with Him in the Garden". It's my truest house of worship, just like Jesus went up in the mountains or gardens to pray.
Over time, I've gotten to know my favorite spots. If you know the area, I start out in the Morris Bridge Trails. It's a dirt lot with a trail head that hikers and mountain bikers frequent. From there, I disappear into the woods, heading downhill into the slough, a ribbon like swamp of virgin cypress, elms, and other hardwoods. Half of the year, it's under water, but at this time of year, it's mostly dry. Trails slip through at various points, but in the deepest part, I frequently veer offtrail into the slough itself and "chase the spirits". Here I can hop the logs, balance across spans, dodge cypress knees, and let go. I'll frequently find myself exhausted and stop for a rest, where I encounter other denizens of the nonhuman sort. I've eavesdropped on a coversation between a mama raccoon and her two kids. Talked with otters, charged and been charged by hogs, hopped with deer, and angered a good deal of squirrels just by being in sight. I've also seen God part the veil and speak to me in amazing ways. I'm totally at ease here. I've even dozed off in the flowers once or twice.
After a bit, I'll make my way back to the trails and head back to civilization. On occasion I've overshot my mark and had to run around the long way to get back or popped out unexpectedly in a place I didn't realize I was heading to. But there are days, like this past Friday, where the world there is different.
This Friday, there was no sun. It's rare here in the Sunshine State, but we do get a few totally overcast days where the brightness of the sun is not discernible through the grey blanket. This day was one of those. It makes the colors of the swamp come alive. The greens and reds and yellows explode in vivid splashes. Particularly at this time of year, the open areas under the trees are a solid field of yellow asters, waist high. So on this day, I found a nice piece of chert, a type of flint. I decided to try napping it into a tool, like our ancestors did. So I plunged offtrail into the sea of yellow far enough to not be a distraction to the few bikers who might zip by on the trail in the early afternoon.
The smell of the flowers was dizzying. Bees swung around full and drunk. I found a large tree with a flat root, perfect as a base for chipping. I protected it with bark and went to work. In 15 minutes I had a useful hand ax and tried it on the branch of an elm sapling. It cut quite nice for my unexperienced hand. I then cached it and my striking stone in a hollow and headed back.
Running in the woods is different than walking. You aren't focused on the distance as much as the nearest step, because you have to adjust your foot placement rapidly to avoid the many obstacles. So it's common to zigzag a bit as you make your way back. So when I didn't hit the trail where I expected, I figured it turned and I overshot it, so I veered left to meet it again. Pretty soon, I realized, I must be much further east than I thought. The trail was just not there. The endless field of yellow was crisscrossed with hog and deer paths. I even woke up one sleepy pig who stuck himself under a log and had to frantically dig himself out while I stood overtop encouraging him. Nothing looked familiar, as it usually doesn't, so I just kept moving ahead thinking I'd hit the powerline eventually and work back that way.
About 30 minutes later, I hit a trail. OK, I thought. This must be my usual trail, just east of my turn, I've been there before when I overshoot, so I turned left and ran on. But pretty soon the trail widened and I began to see horse prints, then manure. I was in the Equestrian park to the south! As shocking as this may seem, to be heading south instead of north, it has happened before. That time, I fell asleep and then jumped up and ran the wrong way out. With no sun, I couldn't tell. But this time, I had not lost my orientation. I had distinctly headed back north from the tree, the way I had come in.
So these woods, must be the majik kind. It is a virgin swamp afterall. It's not the first time trails had seemingly moved on me in these kinds of places. But I could hear traffic, so I knew that must be the interstate. In a few minutes, I should pop out on the edge of the equestrian trails and could shoot back north through a familiar part of the slough. I ran on.
Then, I spotted the clearing. But beyond it was not the mound of spoil I expected by the canal. It was a house! OK, I must be still east where the houses come up to the equestrian park. I'll just head right and find the spoil. (Keep track of these directions and see if I'm not correct.)
Soon, I hit a fence and a street. There should be no street. The houses back right up to the park. I had no idea where I was and for the first time a larger than normal spookiness shot through me. Still, experienced, as I am, I simply slid through the barbed wire and looked for a street sign. 200 meters down, I found one...My blood chilled. I had no idea where this street was. I looked left, then right. I looked up at the grey blanket. I had no idea if I was looking north or south, east or west. I didn't know this street. It could be anywhere around a large range of wilderness. But not to panic. I could always swallow my pride and knock on a door to ask where I was. Then run very fast if the homeowner levelled a shotgun at the half naked man covered in mud and leaves on her porch. I listened and heard traffic again very close. I ran that way. Over a short rise, I could see it. It wasn't the interstate, so it had to be Fowler or Morris Bridge Rd. For those out of the area, these streets are on the south and north of the wilderness respectively. If Morris, I was closer to the parking lot than I thought. If Fowler, I had a long run back, but no big deal.
At the intersection, I was stunned again. This was neither of the streets I expected. This was US 301! This highway runs north on the eastern edge of the wilderness from east Tampa up into Zephyrhills. I hadn't crossed a river, or a road, so I had to be on the west side of the road. Plus cars were zipping from right to left, which at that time of day, must be northbound. But I had no idea how far along the road I was. I didn't recognize the intersection. So I turned right, or south (I hoped) since I was praying to be close to Fowler.
That's when I saw that I was north of County Road 579. Good grief, I was in Thonotosassa! I couldn't have gotten farther from where I wanted to be without crossing a major feature like a river or other blatant directional landmark. That takes a certain kind of bad luck; almost intentional. I didn't know where my little street went the other way, and didn't want to get twisted up in the swamp again this close to dusk, so I decided there was nothing to it, but to hoof it along the road.
I ran, and walked some, and struggled to find saliva in my now dry mouth. Then I ran some more, and some more. I couldn't buy a drink because I had no money. I couldn't go into a store because I had no shirt. I couldn't call anyone because my phone, along with my water, and wallet, were in the truck at the COMPLETELY OPPOSITE CORNER OF THE DANG WOODS!
Eventually I debated sneaking up to a house and swigging some water from a hose, but in that part of town, the thought of shotguns and dogs were quite real, especially for a half-naked, dirty, long-haired mutt like me. Of course, hospitality would have easily prompted anyone to spare me a cup if I'd asked, but I truthfully wasn't in that sort of need and didn't want to pretend to it, which would not only be dishonest, but would likely prompt them to also help me more than I wanted. So I followed the tenet of "get yourself in, get yourself out" and pressed on around the Big Top Flea Market and up the canal toward relief.
After one more short detour around the mouth of the creek I had started in, followed by one more quick twist of directions in the woods, I wound up right back on the canal where I gave up and decided to cross through the caretaker's property despite the glaring signs prohibiting it. Of course, right as I neared the sign on the far side of the property, my leg gave up and cramped. And of course right as I hobbled on past it, the caretaker's wife rolled up in her truck and asked me if she could help me in that tone that says, "you know you shouldn't be here." Having been thus humbled, I dropped my head and sheepishly declared I had gotten lost and just found my way out. She nodded understanding, asked if I was alright otherwise, to which I responded by pointing to my truck a few hundred meters away. She bid me a kind good day and I stumbled into the truck where I downed a bottle of water, answered some texts from my now worried wife, and drove home to a sick stomach, which was quickly cured with ample does of salt and simple carbs. The only lasting injury is my pride, and that's for the better.
In the end, I was in no real danger, other than being overly tired and late. I could find my way out to some point simply by following traffic noise, so I wasn't going to die in there. I had prayed for God to do with me what he wanted on that run and he obliged. I had asked for him to show me what he would, and he did. Once more, I learned about myself, both my abilities and my limits. I learned about His care for me, even in seemingly uncontrolled situations. And I learned that my granddad knew something when he said in his slingblade accent, " 'ere's sump'm in 'em 'oods a'makes ee'n 'em 'at knows 'eysef go a bit auter hids."
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