A Free nonfiction E-Zine that explores all areas of reality, updated by the 1st of the month.
Our November 2006 Edition
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A Free nonfiction E-Zine that explores all areas of reality, updated by the 1st of the month. Our November 2006 Edition Home | Archive | Books & Sites | Contact Us |
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The day we went to Christman Sanctuary in Duanesburg, New York coincided with the fifth anniversary of the September 11th attacks. The only reason why I mention that is not because the trip was a kind of pilgrimage in honor of the day, for the date was purely coincidental. But it made me think of when I had gone through personal traumas, that the best antidote I could think of for healing was living well. Not necessarily putting it out of my mind, mouthing "just think positive" while in essence telling myself or someone else to shut up and get on with it. But instead, using the event as an opportunity to crystallize what I wanted, living in the moment as well as possible. Christman Sanctuary seemed like a great way to exemplify that ethos. As we drove to the park. I thought about the book I was reading, the classic "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" by Robert Pirsig. I tend to let my mind drift while on the road, especially as a passenger like now, and thought of how the author discussed putting care into everything, seeing the essence of quality in everything that you did. To me, I interpreted this to mean, stay in the moment and focus. Which presently, meant to see the trees zooming past on the highway. Occasionally, there were the flicker of autumn color in the trees, but the green was still reigning, as though unaware of the creeping band of rebels plotting to take them over. They were like friends going through changes, gaining a new identity and creating a new scenario of relationship. I would see them again, but they wouldn't quite be the same, just as I changed with every second that passed. We left I-88, which proved to be the easiest stretch of the trip. Even with a map, once off the highway on U.S. 20, we passed the next turnoff, drove down the wrong road, and had to had to go back to U.S. 20. When we plotted the map on the computer, we had chosen Bozen Kill Falls as the final stop, as the digital map was too old to recognize Christman Sanctuary. Besides, the falls were the reason why we chose that place to begin with. But I didn't have a good feeling when the map decided to take us down roads that appeared as river tributaries on the screen, and it didn't seem to lead us where the website said Christman Sanctuary was, but we decided to go with it.  As I feared, as we got close to falls according to map, the roads started getting smaller and smaller, until we got to a dirt road that looked like someone's unpaved driveway, the kind where only one car could go down the road at the time. All the time, we hoped we wouldn't go off the edge or encounter another vehicle. It was pretty secluded, but occasionally there was a house or two. We passed a woman running out to get her mail. She avoided looking at us, running to her house once she got what she came for, as though she considered anyone who drove down this road to be slightly out of their minds. There was creek on side of road hidden by trees that, according to our map, should lead to Bozen Kill Falls. It looked dried up, which didn't bode too well for the waterfall. But we were too busy making sure we survived our 4X4 experience in our front-wheel drive car to really worry about it. We survived the experience, greeting the asphalt of Schoharie Turnpike like it was an oasis. Even though it seemed we misplaced the waterfall and drove through half of the turnpike en route to the off-roading experience, I suggested combing through Turnpike in the other direction, notwithstanding our technologically produced map. As it was, we almost missed the sanctuary again. I supposed I was looking for some grand park entrance. Christman Sanctuary was located in a pull-off spot that looked more like remote fishing accesses than a park entrance. At least in my expectations, which obviously, based on the case in point, needed to be revised and updated, just like my computer map.  When we arrived, our foray into the modern world of asphalt ended. Ours was the only car in the pull-off, and the road we drove on seemed like a slip of a dream. In front of us, there was a blanket of purple and yellow wildflowers looking to blanket us from the outside world. This initial part of the sanctuary was like an open field, although you could see the woods that would envelop you, rendering the shelter complete. Once we reached the woods, there was a sign-up sheet. As I headed towards it to introduce myself to the world, I tripped over a large root. I'd been looking a moment ahead of myself to the sign-up sheet, as though thinking about hitting the ball before the pitcher released his grip. It was a small reminder to stay in the moment, and that meant exactly in the present, not a second ahead or before. Tough lesson to implement. But if I didn't, I'd trip over my own feet. 
The deeper we walked into the woods, the more it seemed pine trees dominated. There was a sagging bridge that was just about the height of the creek we were about to cross, presented like a red carpet from the ancient of days so we wouldn't get our feet wet. As we walked we heard water running, and through some trees, we saw like what looked like waterfalls. We went off the main hiking path to reach them. Most likely, according to my directions, if we followed the trail the whole way through, we would run into the waterfalls automatically, within a mile or so. But we took the shortcut anyway. 
Up close, we saw through the trees a large waterfall, which we presumed to be the Bozen Kill Falls. Despite the dryness of the creek on the dirt road, the waterfall didn't look like trickle from here. It was healthy and buoyant, waiting for someone to play with. You could climb down to reach it, even though there was no path down it, and the incline was very steep. There was no fence or anything to prevent you from going off trails, or for the more adventurous to clamber down to it. Although my photographer husband scampered down, the conservative side of me said my knees had already taken a blow on my fall and I should stay on the trail.
That side of me won, but the other side of me, the adventurous side, didn't like the idea of being on the sidelines. So I found another trail, further down the stream, that led to the top of the waterfall, where I was able to sit on a rock and look over the waterfall. It was like climbing a mountain using a golf cart, or cheating my way to the top. But at least I was there. I watched the water swirl around and follow its path to its crashing end, like lemmings going to their death. Except this was the crux of life being born; a quiet slosh of movement until it bore through the rocks amongst me and changed the shape of the earth, just like the passage of time would change the color of the leaves.  At first, I thought I could walk to other side of falls, so I could link up with a trail that would get to the bottom. It looked like from my vantage point that there was a wooded path that would get to the foot of the falls, but since I wasn't really sure, I didn't want to risk slipping over the waterfall if I fell again. Some adventures were just not worth it, at least, not all of the time. I could always walk around if I really wanted to see the bottom. It was hard to be content with what I had when there was so much else around me, but I knew it was best to work for contentment rather than looking for something on the other side of the moment. My husband joined up with me, and we crossed to another path further down, and the water surrounded me: the moment had enough. 
Back on the main trail, we found a rope ladder which led to another round of waterfalls, which bled into my consciousness in a way that left an impression but no details. There was a rock cave along the path with a plaque dedicated to someone's wife. If this was someone's house at one time, the cave seemed looked like a great place for a kid to hide. It didn't look natural, but then again, a rope ladder wasn't exactly what nature intended either, and the fact that we'd gotten there by car was also unnatural, which is how these kinds of these things went: a natural illusion.
On our way back to the trail, my photographer husband noticed what he thought was garbage. So we went to see what it was. As we approached the site, we saw a plastic storage container that almost looked like a forgotten lunch box. And inside the container, there was a notepad with some writing in it, as well as an inkpad. A whole bunch of people had left their mark in them, signing their names and leaving notes, along with distinctive inkpad markings, like the kind of cute logos I used to get from teachers when I did well on a test. The inkpad was for finders to mark the notepad with their personal stamp.  The plastic container, we later discovered, was in the tradition of letterboxing, a practice begun in England that had crossed the pond in the nineties. Basically it was a combination of pen pal/scavenger hunt, of which I saw a whole list on their website. In all my travels, this was the first I heard anything of the sort, but I could see that it seemed to have a loyal following, and was fairly common, even in my rural county. But at the moment, as I stood on the trail, I just wondered what the heck the letterbox was, and my husband and I left our mark by taking a fallen mushroom and applying our custom signature. 
After that, we were barely a quarter of the way down the trail. We thought of continuing on the path, but it was mid-afternoon, and we were hungry and tired. As we walked back on squishy bridge towards home, little did we know on this day that marked an act of terrorism, we had stumbled across an international gesture of peace and welcome in the form of a plastic box, a gift that nature hid on man's behalf, and a present of the moment, the letterbox a surprise waiting to be noticed.  |
