Experiments in Quietude

While I take a break from mentally actively imagining the movement forward of the parallel universe in this blog, I take a walk.

Out the back door, I step into the woods that surround my house.

I climb to the top of Little Mountain, observing the leafcup leaflets and the shooting stars pushing up not far from prickly pear and brake ferns on the little bald.

I walk along the ridge to the section of woods bisected by overhead power lines overheard to be run by TVA.

I follow a roughcut path to the bottom of Little Mountain, heading west, crossing Old Big Cove Road.

I step into a field and flush out dozens of birds.

I watch dozens of robins oblivious to my existence as they hunt for insects.

Wearing shorts, I carefully walk through brambles, scaring up a couple of deer resting under a small tree.

I follow the deer, scratching my legs on briars, into a deciduous forest and a dry wet-weather creek bed at the base of the mountain on which the Certain Tract is laid out.

Staying out of sight of metal behemoths racing down Cecil Ashburn Drive, I follow the deer path further, stepping over hundreds of soda and beer cans, rolls of metal fencing, broken trash barrels, oil canisters and other debris thrown or bounced onto the roadside and/or washed into the woods by heavy rainfall.

Eventually, the path leads away from the road and deeper into the woods where a creek that flows out from under the road trickles down the mountain.

Like a young kid again, I jump from rock to rock (carefully, though, because this heavy 48-year old frame is less agile), looking for living things finding refuge in tiny water basins.

I walk the creek bed like a cattle rustler hiding from a vengeful posse, making sure my tracks are hard to follow.

Eventually, I find a small creek or spring flowing out of the side of the mountain.

Look!  A baby salamander or newt.

Another one!

There are three or four!

BAM!  I slip and fall several feet, excitement clouding my judgment about the security of stepping on a rock not balanced for a big boy like me.

Triage: stick jabbed through back of a knuckle on my ring finger, an open split of my left palm, a scuffed right knee that's quickly swelling and a sore behind that indicates a hematoma I'll feel more than see the next time I sit down.

Pull out the emergency kit (hey, Scouts, "Be prepared!"), pour water on wounds to wash off blood and debris, swipe with antiseptic alcohol wipe and bandage up.

Move hands, wrists, arms, back, neck, legs, ankles and feet.  Everything works as expected.

A few gulps of water and I'm good to go!

Continue climb to top of mountain.

Take the Bill and Marion Certain Trail.

Shoot photos along the way.

Stop to eat lunch under large tower, next to AT&T/Verizon warning signs.

Take return path using unofficial trail marked by orange bows on trees.

Hike back down mountain using Cecil Ashburn Drive, breathing in auto exhaust fumes to determine the age of the vehicle that just passed me.

Look for fossils in rock outcropping.

Return home.

Shower, dress, redress wounds.

Smile.  It's a good life.  The Hays Nature Preserve, Goldsmith-Schiffman Wildlife Sanctuary and Certain Tract surround me in the middle of suburban sprawl.

Thoughts and prayers to the folks in New Zealand and other parts of the world where turmoil is rearranging political powersharing.

Don't fear revolutionaries - listen to their complaints and try to proactively implement change that benefits the whole population.  Otherwise, elitists, your time will come and go, mainly forgotten on the scrap heap of broken ideals that you tried to prop up with mercenaries and so-called counterrevolutionaries on your payroll.

Act quickly - change is happening in seemingly faster cycles every day.

Time to visit my inventor friends and see what they're cooking up for everyday living.