Into the Fog- Algonquin Autumn – postscript

Sept 30. 7:50 pm Cottage on Hay Lake, outside of the park.

Barred Owl. Lake like glass. Faint glow of sunset’s glow rims the horizon. Dusky sky above.

The water taxi arrived promptly at 9. Jimmy, the owner of the outfitting company was in good spirits. The season is coming to a close for him, an ending for which he is grateful. He gave us a pleasant ride down the lake to the dock, about 20 minutes for what would have taken us about 3 hours to paddle– that is, if the winds were with us.

Our friends were on the dock to greet us. M appeared pale and sounded sinus-y, still feeling poorly though her fever has lifted. D, coughing behind his mask as he shuttled me to our car, waiting at the access point across the park, seems to have caught the same bug. We had a decision to make, which the 4 of us lamented over the table at the Algonquin Lunch Bar in Whitney, where we also shared some brief stories of our concurrent trips. Our friends, older than me by 15 years, are also facing some hard realities. With grace. Ready to let go of portaging into lakes after their attempt at an old familiar portage that felt much more challenging than they’d remembered— yes, it was slick and wet, but the climb itself was more than they feel comfortable with. Theirs is also an invitation to let go, acceptance, loss and love intertwined in, as always, in this leave-taking.

I am sad this evening. Reentry is always difficult, and we thought we’d have some time to decompress while sharing our love of this place with our friends, to connect with them. We were conflicted and saddened to part ways, but with our commitments at home, which await us upon our return, we were reluctant to expose our trip-weary bodies to a virus in the close quarters that is this cabin. We felt it wise to allow this time and space to be one of rest and restoration as our energy stores are likely depleted.

I think of those astronauts, their forced isolation upon their own reentry.

From expectation to what is. Disappointment and reimagination in the same out-and-in breath. Life- uncontrollable–

Wild.

After breakfast we came to the cabin, showered for the first time in 2 weeks, read a bit, then went out to dinner at the diner– where we sat in real chairs at a table and were served a hot meal–pickerel for me, a burger for Don– prepared for us in the restaurant’s kitchen, on a gas-fired stovetop, no doubt.

Oct 1. 5:00am

We were in bed last evening by 9. Now, I sit waiting for the sun to rise. My days still revolving around her risings and fallings.

It is very early, there is no hint of light yet. I have lit a lantern on the porch, where I sit wrapped in a blanket. Somehow the electric bulb felt too harsh.

I was awakened by dream, a nightmare, where I was selected from amongst a small group of researchers, all of them male except me, to be the subject of an experiment. The experiment involved some sort of electric jolt, a transmission of some sort sent through my whole body. Standing in the corner, I had only an inflatable mat of some sort to shield the blow.

On the second day of the experiment , I submissively reentered the room , picked up the mat, made my way to the corner, assumed the posture, where the young attending researcher said to me, ‘You know, you don’t have to do this’ , which of course I didn’t because I was one of the researchers not merely a subject, but his voicing of this was an “aha” to me.

So, I removed the device and the mat, left the cabin, and walked away, into the woods. Instantly, however, I discovered the frightful reality that I was not truly free to leave, but was being pursued because now I had the knowledge of something classified. As that realization hit me, I awakened.

What is it that I am both free to walk away from and not free to do so at the same time? What have I signed onto, willingly, a worthy endeavor, but at my own expense, my own pain…

I awakened to this sadness. Melancholy is the word that Don used earlier in our trip.

I feel subdued this morning. Quiet, introspective. Humble. And a bit broken.

Broken open. I hope. Tears now….

I have written to my friend of this sadness.

"I awakened with a feeling of melancholy, which has been with me for much of this trip. Some of it , during the trip, that old longing for a shared feeling of intimacy with this wilder place where I find such a deep soul connection. I know you understand what I am saying. 
At times my sadness was intense, knowing that, though Don loves me dearly and I him, this feeling for remote and wilder places is not something we share. He goes for me. I know that and that fact reveals his love for me,  but it is also at times evident that I am dragging him along for the ride, or that he is going through the motions, for me.
One of the reasons I go to the natural world, of course, is for this deep sense of restorative healing and reconnection— to the earth, to soul (of the earth, of a particular place, of self), and to the ones with whom I share this intimate, beautiful, soulful space….
At times on the trip, I recognized the sense of something ending, or at least changing. Of course this is the journey of life is it not… changes and endings, and letting go, and deep acceptance of what is now upon us, preparing us , I suppose, for that final letting go when this beautiful journey of life comes to an end....

I was comforted sitting under that immense dark sky, upon this ancient bedrock that has experienced its own deep long soulful journey, by the feeling of being a part somehow (unknown and unnameable by me) of this unfolding, bearing something of its beauty, privileged to witness for a time in this particular way.
Now as I re-enter, a different sort of sadness washes upon the shores of my soul. A part of me longs for home, to be with those I love there, wanting to reconnect without the feelings of guilt or obligation, to just welcome and be welcomed by Love. To feel unconflicted about taking time apart, when I know I have created distance in the same breath….
Don looks forward to being home too, involved as he is in his own places of connection—community governance, wood chopping at the woodyard with his buddies, home projects, and social life. His own melancholy at coming face to face with the immensity of it all out there was a fear of being insignificant and small, of not making a difference or leaving his mark or being known or remembered for something. So being in a place where he can make a difference and be known is good for him. 

Now the morning is casting a silver glow over the mirror still water..  gray above and below the island of gold…it looks like rain. Being indoors may be ok.

Much love to you 



Now, it rains. The earth needs it so. I am grateful for it. I am also grateful for the porch, its sheltering roof, its relative warmth, but it is one step removed, one step of the first of many such steps? From this vantage, I feel more an objective observer, distant, less immersed, less belonging to, less a participant of this exquisite unfolding, less embodied if you will.  

I am also observing my feelings now, one step removed, not overly identifying with them, I suppose one might say, simply, lovingly noticing. Detached or unattached, which is this? Letting go. A leaf released from the body of the tree. 

This is the end of my journal entries for this time. I spent the remainder of our time visiting local artists, restaurants, shops, museums. In the cabin, reading (including for me the introduction of a book, a love letter of sorts to Algonquin, in which the author ponders what it is that draws so many people to the soul of this special place).. and wandering with my camera...