The Forest Wants Me Back

Milkweed sticks to my shins. My ankle, pricked by a thorn, yields a tiny droplet of blood that turns to wax in the hot sun. Cockleburs cling to my cotton socks.

The forest wants me back.

I should have worn jeans.

I spot a patch of poison ivy. Two hikers and a beagle are coming towards me. Shit. I shrink into the branches, maybe they won’t notice me? I’m unfit for human eyes.

Hello! They say as they walk past.

That was a close one.

I turn to see that they’re gone. I’m at the precipice now. Ahead, the path continues to the creek side. To my right, hidden among a chaos of honeysuckle, the rusted trail head is barely visible. I break through the branches to find the remnants. My legs wear a pattern of scratches now. I have no remorse for twigs in my way. They are stomped, snapped and flung as I move forward.

The echoes of children laughing from the park fade away. Heavy rains have muddied the dirt, the ground can accept no more. The stream that runs off of the creek is high on my left, buried in the darkness. I trudge alongside the burnt ember pit.

The trail ran left. There is no left.

I squash down towards the pit and walk along the stream, the mud sucking at my sneakers. Finally, glacial rocks rise from the stream. I hop them to the left. Across it, the earth slants uphill.

I begin to climb.

The trail welcomes me again.

I stalk up towards the peak, holding on to branches I barely know. I reach the top and search like a hawk.

Where is it?

On the cliff face, the ground has eroded. Crumbled like a pie crust, pines hang on by a fraction of their roots, little children, grubby fingers. They want the earth as much as I do.

I walk back and forth back and forth, looking for it for half an hour.

But it’s gone.

I find a spot to sit on the edge.

It’s not my spot.

I can’t see the creek bed, the bluff face I once repelled from, the secret place where I used to meet boys.

I chain-smoke cigarettes. I contemplate throwing myself over the edge. Another fossil for the glacial bed below.

My phone is dying.

That may have to go as well.

But I’m thirsty. Sweat mattes my hair. I stink of fishy mud and cigarette butts.

I walk back the way I came. The ground threatening to give way. I catch myself with a branch. Now there is no path.

At least, there is downward.

I push through branches until I find the stream again. On either side, the mud line stretches for eternity. My rocks—reclaimed by the sludge.

Down into the stream I go.

Shallower to the left, I walk along it until it ends. A beaver dam of trash, old Pepsi cans, cellophane wrappers, a Miller Lite bottle. A pair of shoes. I wonder—how does someone lose a pair of shoes?

I turn the other way. At a shallow point, I sink into the stream. The slurry gathers to my knees. Too slippery to traverse, I crawl the rest of the way up.

Back through the honeysuckle and onto the forgotten trail.

My mud-encrusted sneakers squish against the dirt. My legs, painted with sediment, are a feast for the flies. They follow me like breadcrumbs. I swat them away.

At the trail head, I poke my head through the trees and look both ways. There is no human, no dog on either side of the new trail. I break through the thicket onto the pristine path.

I walk it back to the park entrance, mosquitoes trapped in the amber of my muddy frame.

Cross the street and get in my car. My sneakers slosh on the pedals as I abandon the woods.