March 20, 2023
Greetings from my companion,
If you look at it one way, I wasn’t lost because I didn’t know it, by which I mean I thought I was in one place but was actually somewhere else. I never felt lost, in part because of ignorance, and mostly because of my guide.
I had passed a few people on the trail, and traded the little friendly but frivolous encouragements with the other runners, but within a mile or so I was on my own. I didn’t feel any particular way about running alone, I would have been glad for company, had some presented itself. And in truth it did.
The trees, even in their unclothed state, offered some shelter from the winter wind. The tips of the forest, sketches of trees against the marbled sky, swayed to music I could not hear.
The trail serpentined through the woods, scrambling ahead of me like a puppy. It darted around rocks, up steep climbs, veering off in one direction and doubling back, playing among the swales and rises. I settled into an easy pace, paying attention to the footing, but letting the voices in my head begin their conversation.
Most of my running is done alone. I enjoy having other people around, creating the unique conversation that is found in the intimate magic of running alongside someone. But for a variety of reasons, most of the time I end up by myself, which has given me a deeper appreciation for both circumstances.
The ground was snow-covered, with a fresh layer of powder from the night before. As I ran along, aware of the hidden roots and rocks beneath the white, it occurred to me how easy it would be to lose the path in the blanket of winter.
As if to answer that thought, I noticed a set of footprints in the snow. They were fresh, each one displacing the new powder and revealing the dead leaves on the ground underneath. It was a perfect stencil of another runner’s presence. For several miles, they were the only marks in the snow.
I followed the prints for a while, wondering if I would see who owned them. I began forming impressions, deducing what I could from the clues in the snow. The shoe was large, probably a man. His stride was longer than mine, so I saw him as taller than me.
I chased his footprints along the winding path, running nearly in step with him. He was a silent guide, not instructing, merely suggesting the direction with his example.
From time to time the clouds would lose track of their murky purpose, and the sun would lean down into the forest and paint it with brilliant light. Every place changed to a new thing, bolder in the sun, and even the shadows seemed more proud of themselves.
It took me a mile or so to realize I had relaxed, even in the chilled air and the slippery terrain. I have been in these woods more than a few times, but not enough to know my way along every path. There was something reassuring about seeing my companion running there with me.
He is probably younger than I am, not a huge guess since most runners are. But he ran up the hills, and down, in full stride, with no reservation about the footing. At one point his tracks bound up over a pile of rocks, and at another, he leaped over a stack of logs. My own prints in the snow showed a much more reserved approach.
I took confidence in his presence on the trail, ran comfortably in the places he had been. I ran with him in silence, only conversing through the mottled outline of his shoe.
“Here is where it is safe to put your foot. Here, where the leaves don’t show, it is icy. This is a rock that I tripped on, you should step over it. I ran around this way where the branch fell across the trail.”
I stopped along a ridge and tucked in behind a fallen tree to block the wind. I took out a Chocolate Outrage Gu, told my companion that this might be my favorite flavor. I saw he left the path here and came back, probably answering a different call from nature. Above us, woodpeckers drummed for attention, and the branches clacked in the wind.
I came to a fork in the trail, a new loop through the farthest end of the woods. I stopped for a moment to get my bearings, and then felt this little ache. I looked down and saw that his tracks had disappeared into the footprints of several others. In a few hundred yards I couldn’t even tell if he was still with me.
Somewhere, in the six thousand acres of woods, there were dozens of other runners, day hikers, a few people on mountain bikes, braving the brittle crunch of the winter morning. In a sense, we were all together, even though our paths only rarely crossed. But for one of them, it was especially true.
Sometime later I realized I had been on a completely different trail than I thought and was in fact lost for most of my run. It didn’t matter, in part because I stumbled my way back to where I needed to be. But mostly because it’s easier to be lost when you’re not alone.
As my friend Jake says, “Not all who wander are lost.” And not all who are alone are without companions.
Hope this finds you wandering,
David
Copyright © 2023 David Smith
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