shrine

Not even 18 months ago, I was an inveterate treadmill runner. Surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery in Ontario, I stubbornly sweated it out indoors, proffering all sorts of excuses: I didn't want to leave the dogs alone, it was too hot/too cold/too buggy/too snowy/too icy, there were bears, it was too isolated. And so on.

Then I developed a gait problem/weakness that would not go away, and I tanked several marathons because I couldn't transpose my treadmill training to 42.2 kilometres of pavement-pounding (evidently, I'm a bit slow on the uptake) Finally, in the depth of winter 2019, my frustration level hit a threshold that pushed me outside. It was miserable to start with (I could obviously have chosen a more benevolent time of year to embark on the experiment), but I have grown to love it, and now I do all my running outside. I still don't like the cold, or the rain, or the wind, or the snow, but I certainly do love the beauty of the rugged landscape that I inhabit, and the creatures with whom I share it.

This summer has been hotter than hot, and the heatwave has opened a new chapter of this running outdoors narrative. Until now, I've stuck to the asphalt of the main roads, to stay 'safe'...from the wild creatures, from the bugs, from the risk of getting injured somewhere rather isolated and having to get myself home. 

But the asphalt roads up here don't provide shade, and in the summer, the traffic ratchets up about tenfold, thanks to cottagers and contractors, the former being largely the cause of the latter. So over the past few weeks, I have been exploring the back roads, and enjoying the soul-filling beauty of running in the deep forest, where branches entwine so densely overhead that it's akin to running in a tunnel of green, from the ferns that clog the ditches to the hardwoods that scatter dappled sunlight across the road, to the grand verticals of the pines and cedars that lend a texture of depth and darkness and a beautiful green scent that leavens the senses. More often than not, I will meet no more than one or two vehicles in the space of an hour. The road underfoot, dirt and crushed stone, softens the sound of my footfalls, that make a pleasant, sandy, crunch-swish. The terrain is rarely flat and the road is never straight for long, threading between small lakes and rivers, following ridgelines, skirting precambrian boulders.

The forest never seems hostile. It's never given me cause to feel frightened. I'm aware that the creatures are all around me, and that I'm in their realm, but they seem quite willing to share. Each day brings a different mood : sometimes the forest is dark and broody and enclosing, and others it sparkles and bathes the ferns in backlight. Sometimes the whisper of the branches gives the illusion of rushing water. Even on the hottest of days, there is a cool freshness under the canopy. When I turn back around and retrace my steps, it's almost a shock to come back out onto the asphalt, refreshed and grateful for the temporary respite from the heat, from the traffic, from humanity. 

Deep, deep into the forest, many kilometres from the main road, there is a little shrine. I noticed it on my very first exploration of the road, and remembered that a young man had lost his life there perhaps a decade ago now, in an ATV accident. There are several such shrines that I'm aware of in the area, each of them marking similar circumstances of youth, speed, and alcohol. Some of them are meticulously maintained by unseen visitors; others just sort of fade away. This particular one had been somewhat swallowed up by ferns and grasses, at least until this week, when someone or someones had brought a weed whacker and tamed the underbrush, then spent some time drinking beer with their lost friend. I'm glad that he's remembered. I don't know about feeling his spirit there; I suppose I feel a sadness, but that is more of my own making. Now, he belongs to the forest and its peace.