Honoring the No

When Nature Talks, We Listen

I believe nature is trying to tell us something. And with all of me, I hope to listen. It’s not so much that I understand it fully, more that I am willing. And within willingness is the work to find my attachments and make sure that I am in right relationship with the earth. That the things that sustain me are honored. And heard.

On the last full moon, I was walking in Massachusetts. Vermont was on my mind. And my dry boots. For all the years I’ve been part of hiking culture, that state has been regarded by it’s nickname, Ver-mud. Yet, my feet were unsoiled.

Where did all the water go?

That evening, I walked through a concrete and metal tunnel between grass and gravel, which provided a passage over Interstate 90. I waved westward, toward my Montana home as I walked across it. Then within the hour, the same irksome feeling I’d had in the pit of my stomach intensified. Something’s out of whack in the forest.

I had talked to a local farmer about it earlier that day. He agreed, and had much to add in his experiences connected to the land. The bugs, the weather, and the water were all quite different than he was used to. It felt like a big jump to both of us. New normals are the new normal, but this feels like more than that. Like the end of something that we’ve loved and attached to. Like time to change. I mean really change, from the inside out, and do what needs to be done to feed and honor life, rather than all the things we think we are obligated to do.

And what would that be for me? I recognize my attachment to thru-hiking. That the idea of having to walk in one consistent line across certain land might be questionable. Lord knows the Pacific Crest Trail and Continental Divide have had their ways of telling us that’s not always possible. And why are we doing it? More importantly, how are we doing it and with what intention? If it’s all about the doing then what happens to the beings?

With those thoughts, I began to approach my hiking day as though it could be my last. I stopped for an early breakfast at a place marked for its ‘hangliders view.’ On a rock overlooking a rolling valley, I ate almond butter crackers with coffee. Within moments I was joined by the sound of rustling leaves at the base of a nearby tree. A small creature clawed its way up a trunk. For a second, I thought it was the tiniest bear cub I had ever seen. Then the leaves parted to reveal the critter’s gumdrop body as it scaled its way up. I smiled. A porcupine, the animal I enjoy watching most in the woods. It stepped out on a tree limb and ate leaves, facing the same view.

I once recieved heart-warming thru-hiking tips from a dear character called Baltimore Jack. His phrase, “Quit on a good day,” saved a few thru-hikes for me. On the flip-side, how much better can it get than breakfast with a porcupine?

Part of me still thought I was bluffing. Another part of me wondered which part of me was deciding how I felt. Could I be tired or lonely? Could I simply be unenthused about coming to the lowest and most humid section of the Appalachian Trail? Was I making up a ‘no’?

Then I saw what I needed to see. From 50 feet below my feet on a ridge, I heard claws scratching at the ground and earth ripping open. The long, muscular arms of a male bear were the source of the digging.

“Hello Bear,” I said and turned to face him. He stopped digging and looked up toward me. I was happy to see him, and said so, in a line of greetings and salutations that was suddenly halted. As I held its gaze, an overwhelming sense came over me. “Are you alright?” I asked. The way his eyes peered into me was worth thousands of words. Like I knew exactly what’s been going on, and haven’t been brave enough to face it. “I hear you. I’ll give you your space.” I kept walking.

I could feel his stress and need to survive. Not so unlike how a lot of humans are feeling these days. In the mid-Atlantic, the bears already have a pretty small corridor in which to do their living. Maybe I could pick somewhere else to do my walking.

That night I made my way to the town of Kent, CT and slept behind a candy store. I found a ride to the nearest train station the next morning and have been on a very different kind of journey since. I’ve been visiting with locals and going for walks in the woods to sit and ask.

I believe nature is telling us to listen. To honor when it’s a no. Something grave and drastic is going on with the water. It has to do with wanting what we want and taking what we take with no regard of how it affects everybody else. So I ask myself, what can I do? How can I back off and honor the things that sustain me. How can I be a storyteller who is devoted to nature’s voice. To show the forest that I am here. That I truly love it. And that I don’t want anything more than I want the earth to thrive.