Listening To The Story Of The Forest
The patriarch of this diverse community, a sturdy black oak of 24-inch diameter, speaks for them all: "We have not sought trouble; it has found us on its own." His knotty, gnarled trunk appears to conceal an ancient face peering out at me with gnome-like eyes, and the twisted, broken-out limbs in his upper reaches confirm that violent storms have often ripped the apparent solitude.
Having lacked the stamina to survive shallowness of soil on the precipice, the carcass of a red cedar lists precariously. Others scraggly cedars sprout at odd angles influenced by whatever light the thick canopy affords them.
Desiring to cling to life, smaller red oaks scrabble for their own rootholds among the rocky crevices. And riddled with insect holes, frilly, diaphanous leaves of a tiny American elm plead for moisture. In stark contrast to the drab tree trunks, scarlet sumac stalks laden with deep purple berries lie broken under their burdens.
Though seeming out of place in this rugged setting, the feathery fronds of bracken fern quiver in the breeze. Proving its ability to endure, a persistent catbrier inches up a trunk. Just feet away, tiny sprigs of poison oak chant solidarity against intruders with "Leaflets three, let us be!"
Further into the understory, I spy a single sassafras whose unique lobed leaves masquerade as spears, mittens and tridents. Boiled, its pungent roots yield an aromatic tea with alleged medicinal benefits.
Even as I puzzle over the marked absence of animal life, a granddaddy longlegs scrabbles across the stones. And imparting new meaning to "bug eyes," a ferocious-looking dragonfly hovers long enough to defiantly challenge me squarely in the face. Tiny form frozen on a trunk, a fence lizard awaits my move before skittering.
Chattering ducks feed in the distant shallows, and a single crow shouts his own raucous appeal for dinner. Momentarily, a frisky red squirrel crashes among the limbs of a hickory, perhaps on his own nutty quest.
Darkness casts her cloak over the forest, effecting a distinct change. The wind subsides, and a cloud of mosquitoes convinces me that I've lingered long enough in reverie.
For the months we lived beside Indianhead Lake, the infinite variations of the water's surface never ceased to thrill me. Since then, I've often longed to inhabit a height such as I now observe: forest on one side, river on the other.
But the two strong arms of contrary circumstances and insufficient funds have repeatedly barred the doors to that dream.
Departing to exchange forest quiet for city clamor, I conclude--again-- that not all dreams materialize. And the story of the forest corrects--again--the allusion that trouble this side of heaven can be avoided by running from it.
Trouble faced means hope embraced--and fear erased.
Copyright 2004 James McAlister
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