In summer I never assume anything. The season is full of mirages: oceans shimmer atop asphalt pavements, lightning bolts camouflage as white heat, shadows promise refuge only to vanish in ether. Days, which are supposed to tread slowly like treacle running through the briar patch, hasten with wings from seaside to summit. I trample dirt roads at glacial pace, my pack settling into the grooves of sweat at my back, afraid to make a wrong turn as dust whirlpools dance in the air ahead of me.
Summertime is for unearthing truth and deepening knowledge, so I head out eager to understand how the snake slithers out of its old skin, how the beetle greets death with arms folded in dignity, how the new corn ripens in golden streaks within its husk during the silver nights. I navigate alleys and locate lost streams. I mark Venus shifting in the evening sky and notice the shadowless telephone poles ticking off the interminable highways.
The land, turgid and febrile, teaches me to appreciate each moment. Sleeping outdoors with the stars for a roof, I notice the sluggish river’s erosive power. I read the stories of winter storms upon the scarred juniper trunks. I observe the grasshopper’s exuberance and the decay of the glacial moraine. And I learn that we are all infinite variety, legion, destined to flame and extinguish at any second.
In the end, what does it all signify? I slog up rain-drenched trails and trek through muddied gullies in hopes someone will have the answer. I wanted to entwine my nature with nature’s in order to flow more freely. But at every bend, I perceive haphazard calamity and death. A lake dip might lead to thirst quenched or perilous end. Flutter of leaves exposes and also snares the inquisitive. Hunger can result in satiation or extinction.
There is no knowing. That’s summer’s last lesson as I practice stalking dragonflies and becoming the blueness of the shadow underneath the boulder. No matter how hard I try I cannot alter into feather or fin, petal or thorn. My very presence impedes a full understanding of the wild mysteries around me. Observation influences my observed world. Body collides with body scattering and gathering. Everything comes and goes and I am left longing and wondering.
Still I wait beside the elm, plod the outskirts of marshes in anticipation. Anything can happen and may. Growth conceals and clogs. Do nothing, lazy hours require patience. Then — there! A bubble bursts from the algae pond. A miniature frog somersaults from a grass blade. A thistle down releases, staggering up as a breeze catches it, then water-falling into the creek. “This is it,” I thought, exhilarated. And then, “how lucky I am to witness such magic.” I felt equally weightless, as if with a puff from the same wind, my taut bones could lift — float balloon-like into the ether.
I sit inside my tent, chin upon drawn knees, absently itching mosquito bites. I haven’t emerged unscathed from summer explorations. I never do. My tender pungent skin is terrain for splinters and pincers and acrid surfaces. But these wounds are the price I pay for participating in the flights and eruptions around me. After all everything is eating and being eaten in an endless cycle. Nothing aged is completely unblemished. Haven’t I been discovering this fact all summer?
The important thing is to breathe and to marvel at the breath for as long as I have it, even as I understand it’ll get ragged. Life is tedious; the weight of uncertainty, crushing. The fleeting summer will bring sorrow at its termination. I could rend my garments and gnash my teeth at the decomposition, the violence, the imperfection. Or, I can realize that a pristine planet, washed and cleansed, forever young is a myth. For the brief while we spin together beauty and terror wobble hand in hand in equal measure.
Bespoke Traveler Note:
Every human is a complicated universe of millions of bacteria and microbes working together to grant us abilities, protect our bodies, and shape our identities. Ed Yong, in his book “I Contain Multitudes,” examines the many ways in which we are biologically interdependent, interconnected beings. Purchase this award-winning nonfiction at your local bookshop or at the following Bookshop.org link:
