It Opens Up
“The sound of the rain needs no translation.”
- Alan Watts
If you’re heading northwest on County Road 113 as you approach Thomson, if you look closely, you’ll see a small, painted hummingbird on the side of the road. To the right of the bird is a deer trail that snakes into the ditch and up the grassy embankment until it intersects with the abandoned railroad tracks. The path along the tracks wasn’t really a path, but over two nights; the first with El & Mae and the second with Will, we nudged it over the line to be included in the 85 mile route of the Sugarbench. The only casualties were matching hand blisters, a broken metal rake and a mangled electric line trimmer. Each pass left it less and less miserable until it was finally “done”. We just had to get back to the parked car, a half mile away. Will is generally down with my idea of a good time but he was particularly hungry and wanted to go home as the mosquitos tormented us. He knew we’d be out in the dark and he was kicking himself that he was right.
I was happy. We were in the sacred process of building the green tube from Mario. We were marrying two separate points (Hummingbird -> Beehive) into one semi-cohesive, semi-coherent idea. I’ve always loved linking things up.
When I was around Will’s age (8), I remember cutting a trail with my family through low cedars and honeysuckle brush back to our family’s sugarbush cabin. Everytime it looked like we’d need to turn around, one of us would get on our belly before yelling “It opens up!” The others would sigh, look at their watches or the sky and then reluctantly get into military crawl position. At first it was nothing, an idea, a speck, a gesture. The next day it was a route. It was the way we all went after that day. We had made it possible and passable.
I love seeing things in a new light. But now the light was fading and Will was still whining. “Look around, buddy. We got it good.” I said as the yellow and orange leafs fell around us. I could hear how annoying these words must have sounded. He was one encouraging phrase away from throwing a railroad spike at me. We trudged along until we saw the green of my car in the distance. There was one last patch of scrub brush blocking the exit back onto 113. I took the wooden handle of the broken rake and swung at the dead weeds, sending a puff of seeds into the air. As I did, I stepped on a ground bee hive and was instantly stung multiple times, all over. I jumped in the car, yelling from the spiky pain. There was a moment of silence, after the door slammed. I checked myself over, no longer playing it cool. Laughter rose from the backseat. “The woods got you good!” Will declared. Well played.
It was a warm morning, three days before the Sugarbench. Hot tears rolled down my face. “Do you need my pool goggles, Dad?” Will asked. “No. No, thanks”, I replied. The stings from the day before had left my ankles itchy, the workday was looming and I had a job to do. Sarah offered a piece of fresh baguette. “I heard bread helps,” she mentioned. I wasn’t sure where she was standing but I shook my head in what I hoped was her general direction. I sliced the last remaining pieces of red onion and dropped them into the brine-filled weck jar. I like cutting onions.
A too comfortable world is fortunately familiar, yet uncomfortable to me. There’s still some barn in my veins. There’s red stains on our laminate countertop, too. I remember a stone purveyor told me one time that Americans are afraid of marble countertops. I figured they were like me and afraid of the cost.
He said, “No, they’re afraid they’ll change over time. They’re afraid they’ll stain and etch and chip.”
I asked, “Well, will they?”
“Of course they will. Nothing escapes life.” He replied. I wasn’t following, so he continued:
“There’s a small house in Italy that I visit. One night after food and stories, the nonna of the house fell asleep at the table and his lit cigarette fell onto the white marble. Everyone shouted but when the dust settled, there was a brown mark that never went away. The nonna is long gone but he’ll never leave that table and his family likes that.”
The Sugarbench arrives like the sound of rain. Suddenly it’s everywhere and then it’s gone too quickly for my liking. My headunit tells me that our elapsed time on the course was 6hr, 50min, 49 sec. but that can’t be right. All the rough edges are smoothed out and sped up with jokes and bingo and Bob’s broken rear derailleur. It’s a sea of great people and unbroken eggs and bikes and fall and I genuinely love it. After, with a belly of good food, we go home. I see the rolling hills of Washington County in the distance and realize:
There’s an inconvenient way through the woods.
It’s not the only way or the quickest way.
Not an everyday way.
A sometimes strange, unforgiving, unforgettable way.
There’s a way through the woods.
Nature’s play in the woods.
And I think you’ll like it.
Adam, Andrew and I go on a bikepacking overnighter in Merck Forest, VT the weekend after. There was some sheep on a steep hill, a campfire, bike-delivery pizza and I recall getting a few hours sleep. But, that’s a story for another day. It’s late now and the vichy water is long gone.
Thanks to everyone who came out to ride this year. Thanks to everyone that helped out. Until next time!
木漏れ日,
Andy
