Haibun
Along the White Trail
At 4 p.m. we two adventurous
grandmothers dressed in jeans and cotton sweaters begin a hike
in the Botanical Gardens along the White Trail, not really
knowing where it will take us. We walk for an hour through the
autumn splendor, gathering brightly colored leaves and following
white markings on the tree trunks. The path turns leading us
beside a murmuring brook.
Dusk falls rapidly as we proceed along the Oconee River.
Somewhere in the bushes, frightened birds flap their wings. A
cardinal begins its soft yet piercing distress call, “Tsik-tsik-tsik!”
A deer’s sudden rush through thickets startles me. My friend
Carla is spared the fright: she has left her hearing aids at
home. Her night vision isn’t the best either, and she praises my
white sneakers: easy to see and to follow.
The river reflects the sky’s dim light from the cloud-hidden
moon.
Canada geese
begin their loud honking—
smell of water…
The path veers toward the forest. It
is dark under the canopy of trees, and we have been unable to
see the white markings, or any markings at all for that matter,
for a long while. But there has to be an end soon!
Suddenly we come upon a swamp, tall trunks of dead trees poking
the sky with their graphite-like points. A ghostly view! The
darkness deepens. I follow the trampled gray-white leaves on our
path, holding the hand of my trailing companion, taking small
steps, lest we trip over tree roots. The stench of dead animal
marks a stretch of our journey. But humor carries us on:
“When did you last hike in the woody swamps at night? Never?”
“Next time, we’ll carry a flashlight and an ax with us, just in
case…”
Stories of people
lost in the wilderness—
suppressed breathing…
We take careful steps, in single
file and connected by a tight handgrip. We tread our way along a
gurgling but invisible creek. All at once, it is right before
us, and we need to cross. To help out, Carla hands me her watch,
which has a fluorescent dial face, and I hold its dim green
light close to the water, looking for each protruding rock and
touching it with my hand to check its shape. We manage this very
well and go on. There has to be an end…
Finally, after three hours of
hiking, we reach the brightly-lit center of the Gardens and exit
from our route, where the sign says, “Orange Trail.”
Orange Trail!? How did that happen?
Moon peeks out
from behind the clouds—
a smiling face.
