Meandering

19. Meandering (May '05)

I went for a walk today, in the woods. It was a coniferous wood, with small, regularly spaced trees, and a spongy carpeting of needles underfoot. The path had started as a one-shoe-wide trail that wove gently through an open grassy area with deciduous trees on either side, and bluebells so vividly purple that they slid and shimmered with a neon intensity against the bright green grass. The wavy brown line of the path ended at the edge of the conifers, which made an archway over an orange-brown needly path crossing three small-but-steep hillocks and disappearing into the pillars of trunks. It had an entrancing pull, and I could almost hear a carnival barker calling "step right up, step right up, who wants to enter the Tunnel of Adventure?"

I ducked under the branches framing the opening, and scampered up and down over the mounds. The air got cooler. The wind was strong above, and I could hear the steady soughing of the upper branches, every now and then crescendoing to a whoosh, and then fading back down to a rustle. With the whooshing came sprinkles of needles falling, and also small thuds when an entire bright green tip of one of the growing branches detached and plummeted down. Only the highest branches were green. The ones at my level were brown, dry, spindly fingers, stripped of their needles, and reaching out to fill the spaces between each trunk with clothes-grabbing, hair-tangling malice.

I trod swiftly and jauntily along the path, helped by the bounciness of the ground. The path twisted and zagged through the trees, with no sensible aim, and no warning about when it would switch. And since the whole floor was covered in needles, there was no looking to the ground to predict which way the route would go, or even whether there would be a route at all, seeing the way-barring, finger-twiddling trees directly ahead. But there was always a way through; at the last moment my peripheral vision would sense a lack of obstruction to the right or the left, and I would swing that way, almost giddy at my non-crashing into limbs; a horizontal vertigo as the amassed brush gave way to nothingness.

The carnival mood thrilled through me as I flashed on memories of mirror mazes. I would whiz through the glass/mirror/empty paths with my arms held out in front, trying to see how fast I could go without smashing into the barriers. The danger was much diminished here, but the speed, and the erratic whipping from side to side echoed the sensation exactly. Adding to the fun was the eerie presence of the (presumably unintentional) trail-designers, who in their collective absence took on a character similar to the Great and Powerful Oz; a mischievous, absent, looming persona whose sole purpose was to confuse and delight the wanderer who stumbled upon their labyrinth.

Examples: The path leading steeply uphill and then down; crossing a gully and then ten feet later crossing back over it again. At one point I was burped out into a clear space at the edge of a field filled with fat sheep and bewildered lambs, who stared at me for five whole seconds before fleeing behind their mothers. The path paralleled the field for a few paces, and then dove back into the trees again. I got the sense that I was going in a big counterclockwise circle, though I wasn't sure exactly where I was relative to the entrance. No matter; I knew which direction the town lay in, and I could find my way back from wherever I popped out.

And then suddenly Oz did something he hadn't done before -- he gave me a choice. I was at a crossroads with three obviously path-y ways to go. The one to the left would cut back to pretty much where I just came from, and to where I judged the original entrance to be. The one on the right led downhill, and I guessed it would dump me out of the woods onto a road. I wasn't quite ready to be done with my adventure, so I chose the straight ahead path. Oz chuckled and indicated that I had made the wrong choice by causing the path to curve quite suddenly to the right, and rejoin the downhill path farther on. Okay, I said, down to the road it is. I bounced down the steep slope, and suddenly the fabric of space warped and I was wrinkled back up the hill, because I crossed three steep hillocks and then I was spat out at the original entrance, which I *know* was behind me.

I wound my way back home, making a mental note that next time I would bring a ball of yarn.

Love,
Andrea

p.s. Below is the fruit of my many months of labor for Bachue: the itinerary of the tour I booked for them of the Highlands and Islands. It will be my last fruit. The fact is I despise agenting. There were other minor tasks I did for them that were enjoyable, but it has settled out from the nebulously swirling uncertainty of my initial job description that the main thing they need is a fiery, go-getter, people-person to knock down doors and promote them to the world. That ain't me. It's okay, though. I entered into the job on a let's-see-what-this-will-be-like basis, and now I know. We have parted as friends, and it has brought me to Selkirk, which is a lovely place to live. And now I can feel secure in ticking off "agent" from my "possible careers" list. Next up: "Tasmanian Devil Breeding Consultant."

2nd July -- Invershin Hotel, Sutherland -- 01549 421 202
3rd July -- Lyth Arts Society, Wick -- 01955 641 270
5th July -- Ceilidh Place, Ullapool -- 01854 612 103
8th July -- An Tairbeart Heritage Centre, Argyllshire -- 01880 821 212
9th July -- Ardkinglas House, Cairndow -- 01499 600 380
15th July -- An Tobar, Isle of Mull -- 01688 302 211
16th July -- An Tobar, Isle of Mull -- 01688 302 211
17th July -- Bunessan Hall, Isle of Mull - 01688 302 211
19th July -- Skye Festival, Isle of Skye -- 01471 844207
20th July -- Lochcarron Hall, Lochcarron -- 01520 722 426

p.p.s. I'm off to Iceland tomorrow for a vacation with my folks, so if you email me and I don't answer for a few weeks, that's why.

Andrea Blumberg