The Mossy Ridge trail called to me this week and on Thursday Tractor and I went and hiked it. It was a cooler day for July in Tennessee – only 75 by mid-morning – but the humidity was still high, much to my and Tractor’s chagrin. The air here is so different than Michigan’s. There, it’s clear and crisp like a new dollar bill. Here, a warm bowl of oatmeal; tasty and good, yes, but also heavy and thick. There are adjustments to be made for sure. A building back up to my Tennessee lung capacity amidst the “thick”; the first big hill told me so.
And as Tractor and I made our way, I was reminded of why I have embraced Tennessee as my home for what’s now going on 25 years (!). As I looked up from the trail and took in the panoramic views around me, I was touched time and time again by the lush beauty of the Tennessee hills and forest; the quiet embrace the canopy of trees provide; the tranquil and safe space the parks provide for the many deer, birds and other animals who reside here.
But even more than that, these trails know me, in many ways more intimately than most friends and family. The hard packed soil, the whispering leaves, the sharp inclines and gentle downward slopes: they have absorbed it all. And I’ve left nothing unsaid. Since I first discovered the parks over twenty years ago - thanks to a good friend who helped me navigate the very rocky emotional terrain of a break-up by getting me to go on hikes with her at Percy Warner Park - I’ve been smitten.
It’s been truer to me than any boyfriend. I’ve laid it all on the line, shared every little detail of every little hiccup, train wreck, and victory in my life. And in return the trail has been the very best listener, never judged me, helped me weigh the pros and cons of any given situation, given me perspective . . . sustained me. No wonder I am called back time and time again.
Sometimes I go begrudgingly. Sometimes I can’t get there fast enough. But as I settle into the trail, the familiar rhythm returns to me. I’m at home inside myself again. Sorting. Dumping. Blessing. Breathing. Becoming bigger. Becoming one. On the trail, all is well. Or will be by the time I’m done. Because I leave it all out there. And the trail accepts it without so much as a sigh.
There’s a spot on the Mossy Ridge right when you begin where a house used to be. All that’s left now are a couple stone steps and a still-beautiful chimney. It reminds me that lives were lived here. It knows way more than me – this land, this place, the trails. They are the constant; they always remain. Even when we don’t. Because the fact is, we are all just passing through.
And that’s exactly why, for the past twenty years, I’ve headed to the parks. In high times, in low times, and often just to walk and talk with a friend (the very best play date!). Because it is always there for me. It is wizened and tough, loving and strong. And it deeply re-connects me to this physical earth and the intuition that I am part of that, will return to that. Just as I return to the trail time and time again.
In this place, my secrets are safe. My soul is at home. I know who I am. I imagine one of those old, wise Tennessee oak trees whispering across the miles to a Michigan cousin: “She is good. Planting deep roots. Raising a beautiful family. Becoming more of who she’s meant to be each passing year. She’s a keeper and we love her like our own. All is well.”
Truly, all is well.
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