Planning for my upcoming trek has made me nostalgic for adventures past. An annual tradition of mine for some years now has
been to get away from civilization for a week or so and immerse myself in the
primitive. Granted, Finger Lakes National Forest is more of a cultivated
wilderness than a pristine one, but it suffices to satiate my escapist
tendencies.
No matter how many
times I go, the silence is always a readjustment. I get so frustrated with the
inane conversations surrounding me that it is a relief to remove myself from
any and all arguments and controversies. No more religion, politics, sports
and, best of all, not a single verbalized “LOL”. No computers, phones, radios,
air conditioners or televisions with the assorted innocuous hums filling in the
background of my auditory perceptions. The manmade fades away leaving only
nature’s symphony to fill the void.
While
I enjoy the traditional array of camping activities, from exploring the woods
and becoming acquainted with its various native denizens to the wood-smoke
aroma of a late night campfire, none of these experiences are unique to me.
What makes this particular forest memorable to me is Foster Pond. I’ve always
been a water person and this backwoods pool has been a sanctuary to me for a
long time.
The
pond’s deep amber water absorbed the sun’s rays with a voracious appetite,
releasing them at night in the form of a warm, steamy mist, nearly Tolkienesque
in its’ display. I remember floating on my back in the mist shrouded water
watching the bats sweep the air for their parasitic prey as they performed
their nightly aerial ballet, close enough to feel the wind from their wings as
the bullfrogs sang their throaty serenades from the far bank. Swimming through
this ethereal happenstance, water so close in heat to my own that I can hardly
sense it, it was if I were flying through some otherworldly dimension.
This
is as close as I have ever come to paradise. Spending my nights immersed in
those waters all night long, treading water for as long as I could,
occasionally resting on the soft grassy bank, watching the heavens as I
recharged. On occasion I would see paired flashes of phosphorescent green as
the moon reflected from the eyes of one of my nocturnal neighbors or another. I
would watch them, my eyes barely above the surface, as they went on about their
business, oblivious to my presence. A red fox, just passing through, a handsome
skunk, white stripes nearly glowing from Luna’s light, stopped for a drink. His
pungently odiferous broadcast warned me of his approach, but I could not take
offense to the aroma, as his claim to these acres was made long before mine.
My
favorite caller, who visited almost nightly, was a large round raccoon. I am
sure he grew to his rather massive size by scavenging the leftovers from past
campers. Not that he was any worse for it, as his sleek gray fur and alert,
inquisitive eyes attested. Our first meeting was at dusk. I was relaxing on
shore, legs in the water after watching the sunset but before the bats began
their foraging in earnest. He emerged from the brush line with hardly a whisper
of disturbed branches, carrying his dinner with him. I was maybe forty feet
away at the time, watching him as he approached. I’m sure he was aware of my
presence beforehand but he still made a rather dramatic spectacle of himself as
he first “noticed” me. He looked at me, dropped his meal and drew himself up on
two feet as tall as he could, almost three feet. Leaning towards me slightly,
arms dangling, I could see him snuffling the air and wriggling his whiskers,
letting me know he was aware of me. After a few moments of these theatrics he
apparently came to the conclusion that I posed no threat and proceeded to
recover his morsel and continue on to the pond. The way the bank meandered had
me sitting almost directly across from this fellow, although he couldn’t have
been more than twenty feet away at the time. It was interesting to watch this
seemingly fearless creature wash his food, a root of some kind, by passing it
back and forth between his nimble black furred paws, from such a close
distance.
Although
it is never the same experience twice, I am always, at some level, planning my
return to Foster Pond. It is one of the few places I can feel free to release
my hold on this “modern” world and embrace a place more primitive and, to me,
at least while I am there, more real.
