Reflections 12
Walking
I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks…
Thoreau, Walking
It only seems appropriate that since Molly and I spent so much of our time walking in the bush that I devote a chapter to this activity. After all, Thoreau dedicated a whole book to the topic. He also goes on at great length about his preference for the word saunter over walk and I must say I am in full agreement with him for it has the added connotation of leisure as in the phrase ‘a leisurely walk’. For me, a saunter is more about the journey, the goal or end point being of only secondary importance.
There are countless facets to the art of walking which relegate it to an elevated place among the wide range of choices for getting from point A to point B. Unlike many other modes of moving about, it requires no specialized equipment aside from comfortable foot-ware and even that is unnecessary in the right circumstances. Neither does it require any special training. Walking is clean, nonpolluting, silent and leaves no destructive wake in its path. It takes its time. A saunter in the bush allows the walker to move slowly, unhurried, to intimately bond with the very vegetation of the place. Frequent pauses come naturally. Every part of the body, heart, lungs, bones and muscle benefit.
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During my time in Bancroft, it was through my daily walks that I came to know intimately every tree and fallen log and bend in the meandering trails I’d hewn. Trails through new growth and old, up and down the steepest hills where a handhold or two was needed to stop from sliding back down to the bottom. Trails where the sun’s rays were often banished by the dense canopy of stately conifers, or the dappled light where the softwoods dominated, or breaking free of the trees altogether to find the eyes assaulted by the blinding light of the open meadows intensified by the reflection of the snow-covered ground below.
It was such a delight to walk these trails on a daily basis. The best days were those that followed a dusting of freshly fallen snow when everything including the air was fresh and clean. Days when countless tracks since the last snowfall, both mine and those of the animals of the night, had been erased to be replaced by those of a single night telling a much simpler and more readable story of these creatures and their habits. Unlike myself, these same creatures seldom took advantage of my trails except to cross them from time to time. No, they had their own intricate network of byways weaving in and out of the thicker and more protective undergrowth.
Walks in the warmer months, although enjoyable, lacked the narrative aspects of a winter walk when I might happen upon a small opening entirely covered in hare tracks, all from the previous evening giving me pause to stop and consider just what business they had there. Was it some sort of social gathering or ritual, a celebration perhaps? Were they simply frolicking with delight in the new-fallen snow? Was it some sort of mating ritual? I had no idea why they chose to gather as they did, but I often paused to speculate and wonder what it would be like to witness one of these gatherings as it was taking place under the light of a full moon. I believe it would be truly magical.
It was also on these daily walks that I felt closest to my surroundings. No matter what the previous night had been like, a walk in this wintry wonderland never failed to raise my spirits. With every breath filling the lungs with the crisp fresh air, troubles seemed to melt away and life was always good.
Of course every walk, whether it be two kilometres or twenty, had to come to an end. But the joy of arriving back at the cabin, the wood stove kicking out the welcoming warmth as if to say, “Welcome back.” Then to grab a hot cup of coffee or tea kept warm in my absence on the stove top, put my feet up and dote upon how fortunate I was to be living the good life.
