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The woods behind my apartment building sent a smell like fresh dill through my open bathroom window and beckoned me to come for a morning walk. I couldn't resist. I bounded up the hill with surprising energy after four days of nursing a sore throat, a self-proclaimed prisoner in my own apartment. I paused half way up the steep ascent and picked up a broken branch, its bark rough and flaking, that looked like a stick figure man I draw on the green board from my kids. I set up a few stones at the base of his legs to allow my stick man to stand unaided. Then I made hair with some leafy foliage and put it on top and named him the Guardian of the Woods. Pleased with my little sculpture, I left it and continued to climb. After I crested the steep mountainside, I stooped to see a tiny spider on a branch. The branch had fallen years ago and had naturally decayed over a large stone, outlining the stone with its broken form. the spider, which was small enough to fit comfortably on the end of a Q-tip, had a small, orange abdomen that was dwarfed in comparison to its large head and body, which had displayed a white dot. It reminded me of a bull dog or a top-heavy weight lifter. The spider moved along the fallen branch, centimeter by centimeter, it's individual movements a quick staccato yet making slow, deliberate progress across the branch. I remained stooped on my haunches wondering what was on the spider's schedule for this morning. The spider came to a part of the branch that had broken and become jointed over the rounding crest of the large stone. Instead of finding a laborious route around to the next half of the branch, the spider paused for a second and then in the blink of an eye jumped more then ten times its own body length to the other side of the branch. Then it continued on its way. And so did I. I stood up and continued to walk along the trail. Seven or eight gray and black butterflies quickly gathered, fluttering around me and escorted me through the forest. They were my protectors from mischievous tree spirits who sometimes roam through these woods. Or if not protectors, they were surely playful and curious about me. I came to the mound grave that marks the other side of the mountain and noticed amongst the trees a black, rusted, barbed wire fence that was happily broken and long forgotten. I touched the trees that I passed, feeling their rough bark on my palm, feeling the life of the tree permeate my own bark. As I neared the small, communal growing plots, I was hit with a natural and pungent smell that reminded me of milling medicinal herbs with Phil Schow when I was twelve to earn extra cash for scouting trips. The smell held on and wouldn't let go. I walked away but it followed me down the path. Finally I lost it as I hit the pavement and walked the 50 yards to the school. The sun shone overhead hidden in a thin smog. Is it the infamous yellow dust storm we've been waiting for for months? A bright halo circled the sun, the way it does a few days before a rain storm. Morning Hike--Scottro [2003-05-12]
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