Woodland Traces   By Mary C. Trejo   PAGE 3 of 3  <BACK

Edged by a formal progression of walnut trees planted in the days when it served as a carriage row, the lane was rutted, well traveled, and sadly lacking in mystery. On its right side a bramble of blackberry bushes extended for some twelve feet, while on the left lay a large pasture, where the scent of mixed grasses and clover hung in the heavy air. Bemused by the warm humming of bees and by birdsong, I often detoured off the lane to follow faint animal trails through the tall grasses. If I moved quietly, watching for sharp stubble and snakes, I might surprise a groundhog or rabbit, for the pasture was alive with burrowing, nesting creatures.

At the edge of my knowledge of the world lay the woods, a place where recognitions of pathways held special importance, for these woods were large enough for a child or a stranger to become lost in them.  Country-bred, I followed the cow paths that wound through the tall trees, avoiding the thickest underbrush.  Oaks and some hickories dominated this secondary forest, but in spots hard for the 19th century loggers to reach enormous and ancient pines still stood, vestiges of the old virgin forest.  My favorite place was a stand of pines at the top of a sheer bluff.  As I looked out over the wooded valley, I could see my home, and beyond, the faint delineation of the White River Trace.  Green and silver mosses grew luxuriantly under the high canopy, and dogwood and wild azalea caught the sun on the steepest slope.  In most springs the blooming times of the dogwood and azalea overlapped, and then this high vantage point seemed to me the essence of all that I might ever desire.  I never imagined in those days that I would mark out many seasons miles away from my native woodlands, or that the woodlands spring would exist for me in memory rather than in fact.

Now my journey is almost complete, and I can see that I have truly left the Chihuahuan desert behind.  My desert-inured eyes, accustomed to sands and naked stones, the flat green spears and creamy flower heads of yucca, now record a deciduous forest.  The earliness of the season is shown by the stages I see in the spring leaves, for the mixed wood is not yet completely leafed out.  Although my eyes are drawn to the white patches made by blossoming wild hawthorn, the muted fuchsia of wild redbud and the brighter tones of flowering crabapple, I am most moved to see that I am returning in time for the new leaves, many not yet uncurled but showing a tender, vulnerable green.  If I squint my eyes I can see that soft new green in an aureole around the top of each tree forming a subtle halo of promise over the wood.  For the first seventeen springs of my life I took the color of new leaves for granted, never considering the possibility that experience could be squandered.

Hurrying now, I leave the paved road with relief and turn onto a remembered trail. My old home lies a few miles farther across the valley, but I am nearer to another homecoming.  Leaving my car on the grassy shoulder of the road, I walk into the woods. The ground is soft and spongy underfoot, and the moist air forms a tangible envelope so heavy I feel that I can hold it in my outstretched palm.  The path is easy to find, and I climb upward with confidence and growing joy.

Now I have gained the ridge top and am in full possession of the moment, as I stand near the edge of the bluff and gaze at the valley below.  The house and the farm lot, the open fields and hedgerows and woodlands are unchanged, and overhead the pine trees stand as they always did.  I notice with mild surprise that the years which marked a substantial portion of my lifespan have not been sufficient to register as change in the pines' height or girth.  Although both hawthorn and redbud are blooming nearby, it is too early in the season for the wild azalea and the dogwood; their heavy buds have not yet opened.  This year I will be here for the entire blooming season before returning home to the Southwest, for I have restructured my priorities to include the luxury of extended travel.  My woodlands, my desert; I have come to know that both speak to some essential wellspring whose importance I do not entirely understand but gladly acknowledge.  As I look out over the valley, I notice the outlines of the White River Trace, which I have never followed, and I experience its old call. I feel a sense of peace.  There is nothing, not even myself, to stop me.  

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