Twenty-Twenty, Step by Step or: Walking Roughly One-Thousand-Nine-Hundred Miles in Our Shoes

Tannin Reflections, Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge.

When I was a young girl, ten-years-old or so, I spent a decent amount of time swinging on our backyard squeaky swing set in Grantham, Pennsylvania. One day-- gripping suspended chain-link, bending and extending skinny arms, vigorously pumping knobby-kneed legs, I had a moment of elementary calculation and existential clarity. Head down, glimpsing the green grass, head up, gazing into the blue-blue sky, I thought, I will be sixty years old in 2020. That's pretty old, and that will be really strange. Well, here we are, and there you go: I am indeed pretty old, and 2020 has proven to be far stranger than the young girl on a backyard squeaky swing set in Grantham, Pennsylvania, ever imagined. 

They say that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. They are correct, of course, pithy proverb composers usually are. We might add that in 2020, the journey also begins with careful reading of coronavirus-related travel restrictions and park closures, durable cloth masks or gaiters, and several travel-size bottles of hand sanitizer. Turns out, Brad and I have taken a lot of footsteps over the past twelve months... 4,345,670 by my still-elementary calculation. We've followed various and sundry trails, some well-marked and well-trafficked and others poorly labeled and less travelled. We've logged quite a few miles, locally, and as far-flung as the spinning circles, spirals, and swinging pendulums of pandemic circumstance would allow. Along the way, I've snapped plenty of photographs, collected some thoughts, and learned a thing or two-- actually a dozen or so-- to share here.

November 2019: Ben's Beach, Long Branch, New Jersey.

Given the gift of hindsight and the latitude to construct a visceral calendar, our 2020 journey began in November 2019 as we learned to walk through a world without Ben. In the weeks after we said goodbye, we made regular visits to Long Branch, cleaning out his apartment, sorting and sifting, trying our best to make sense when there didn't seem to be much sense. After these sessions, we would take short walks on the boardwalk, breathing in sharp salt air, looking out across a landscape that was at once starkly beautiful and incredibly sad... an infinite sky, an unfathomable ocean filled with gaping grief, a broad beach swept clean by wanton waves, waves lifting and crashing on the shoreline, always and forever shaping the story... grains of shifting sand.  

During a recent phone call, sister Debbie, in her loving, thought-filled way, gave me one more thing to think about. While she was speaking of small appliances and kitchen countertop clutter, the thought struck me as easily extended to landscapes and life... Sometimes, what's not there is as important as what's there. Sometimes it's the seemingly empty space between that offers joy, beauty, comfort, a sense of rightness. The view from the boardwalk was just so: the sky, the ocean, the beach. And Ben not there. Ben, the seemingly empty space between. As we turned from that mid-November panorama, we swept up the empty space, the place where Ben's life story was told, is still being told, gone but not gone. We folded it reverently, clasped it close to our hearts, and carried it with us as we walked on. 

December 2019: Loantaka after an Ice Storm.

The paved pathways and picturesque trails of Loantaka Brook Reservation wend their way through our family story. Toddler Ben and I walked around Kitchell Pond, watching bobbing ducks and geese. Later, Ben logged countless miles on those pathways and trails, some with the high school running club, more on solitary runs, and others on family outings. On humid summer evenings, the three of us would head to Loantaka: Brad and Ben would launch on planned and plotted runs, in different directions and at varying paces, and I would walk along the brook that winds through the long, narrow park. And often, as dusk was settling in the woods, as crickets began to chirp and owls began to hoot, I would hear footsteps approaching from behind. Footsteps, smooth and gliding footsteps, moving fast. Ben would fly by me on his long, graceful legs, offering a conversant, Hey, how's it going, before rounding a bend in the trail and vanishing into the gloaming. Lovely Loantaka... in Lenni Lenape tradition, the place of cold water. 

I hear other footsteps, too, footsteps from that last summer. We parked in the lot off Kitchell Road and made a short loop around the pond, into the shaded woods and back again... shared silence, deliberate steps, a warm day.

In December, Brad and I returned to Loantaka after an ice storm-- dramatic, unsettled clouds filling the sky, customary pathways coated in frost, familiar trees cast in silver crystal, a cold haze covering the pond. All the Loantaka memories were still there, but they had been transformed, encased and preserved in Winter's Artistry.  In the New Year, we would walk through the world, seeing things in new ways. 

January 2020: Brad and Fallen Tree, White Trail,
Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge.

In January, following a relatively bleak, leaf-blanketed trail in the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge, we came upon a large, nay gargantuan, toppled tree blocking our white-blazed way. A casualty, no doubt, of one of November's wicked wind storms, the fallen giant presented us with several intriguing alternatives: go no further, turn around; go around it to the right; go around it to the left; go under it; go over it. Turn around: this struck us as a poor choice, as we like to finish what we've started, and as we don't like to be cowed by foliage. Go around it to the left or right, go under it: these choices were ultimately unappealing, given all-around-us thorny underbrush and tangled brambles and all-beneath-us squishing swamp mud. This left us with go over it, and Brad did that without hesitation, a limber step onto the trunk, followed by an athletic leap to the ground on the other side. In contrast, my maneuver went something like this: a hesitant hoist, an ungainly sit, an excruciatingly slow pivot, an inelegant drop to the ground, accompanied by a rueful sigh. We returned to this trail throughout the year, repeating our respective crossings each time. Unfortunately, during the final crossing of the year, my excruciatingly slow pivot resulted in the ripping, nay shredding, of the backside of my hiking pants. Quintessential 2020. I struggle to articulate what thing-or-two I learned on the White Trail; perhaps something about gumption and something about at-risk garments for the sixty-and-over set.

February 2020: Perrine Pond, Cheesequake State Park.

In February, we drove south on the Garden State Parkway and went day-hiking at Cheesequake State Park. Beyond noting ecological diversity within the park-- freshwater and saltwater marshland, white cedar swamp meeting tidal estuary, hardwood forest mingling with pine barrens-- I made an important personal observation. Brad and I generally travel well together-- we've been walking together, literally and figuratively, for nigh unto forty years. We possess, however, different styles, in hiking and in life. Brad is intellectual, goal-oriented, prone to brisk trekking, always looking at the big picture: This area shows extensive evidence of glaciation. I think we should go easy on the water, this is a long haul. We've got to keep moving. Those are storm clouds on the horizon, we're about to get rained on. On the other end of the hiking stick, I tend toward intuition, experience over outcome, excessive sauntering, often obsessing over obscurities and natural intricacies: Look at the wild colors and striations on yonder rockface. Let's sit in the shade of that charming saguaro, drink all the water, eat all the snacks. Let's linger a little longer. Look at the rain drops on the lake, so pretty, what's that sound, thunder? In my defense, I turn to American naturalist, essayist, poet-philosopher, and happy wanderer Henry David Thoreau, who enthused, It is a great art to saunter! And so we continued, the purposeful trekker and the poetic saunterer, over the hills and down the 2020 trail.

March 2020: Skunk Cabbage, Lewis Morris County Park.
If you are affected with melancholy at this season, go to the swamp and see the brave spears of skunk cabbage buds already advancing toward a new year.... 
Henry David Thoreau

As the calendar flipped to March, our anticipation of Spring was tempered by concern about the spreading pandemic and its attendant social, economic, and political complications. Even as we marveled at heraldic skunk cabbage, greens growing greener, budding buds, and early bloomers, we watched in dismay as the world descended into a coronavirus mess, first at the periphery of our notice, every day more and more. Everything, everywhere, was closing down, locking down, turning the calendar upside down and then negating the need for a calendar at all. Instead of the proverbial two steps forward, one step back, exploring the great outdoors became one step forward, two steps back. Spring had sprung, but we were spiraling into a season like no other in our collective experience. 

April 2020: A Sign of the Times, Watchung Reservation.

April 2020: Walking the Towpath, Delaware Canal State Park. 

April 2020: Otter Hole Falls, Norvin Green State Park.

In the mid-nineteenth century, Thoreau ruminated, What is it that makes it so hard sometimes to determine whither we will walk? While I can only speculate on mid-nineteenth obstacles to route planning, I can emphatically respond that in April of 2020, executive orders and public health guidelines made the whithers to walk more challenging by the day. A long-time problem solver and an accomplished social distancer, Brad devoted significant time to researching open parks and unrestricted trails. Thoreau opined, and we're getting the idea here that he had a rumination or an opinion for all conceivable occasions, Every walk is a sort of a crusade. Indeed, the more the world locked down, the more fervently we pursued fresh air, the more avidly we sought daily ambulation. Outdoors and away from our fellow citizens seemed like the place to be. Almost defiantly, we hiked increasingly remote locations in New Jersey and made several runs for the Pennsylvania border, strolling the lovely historic towpath at Delaware Canal State Park. Whatever the weather, when we could go whither, we went.

May 2020: Roaring Brook, Sourland Mountain Preserve.

May 2020: Wilderness Area, Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge.
Picking our way over quaking meadows and swamps and occasionally slipping into the muddy batter midleg deep...
Henry David Thoreau 

May 2020: Shoreline Iris, Splitrock Reservoir, Farny State Park.

More Thoreau: It is a surprise and memorable, as well as valuable experience, to be lost in the woods any time. In May, we got a little bit lost at Sourland Mountain Preserve-- let's call it mildly and briefly disoriented by wildly byzantine trail signage. We got a little bit more lost, mud-caked, and drew blood in a wilderness area of the Great Swamp-- let's call it wandering ridiculously off-trail to detour a quagmire, then bushwhacking through vicious thorn-and-bramble foliage to resume the trail. We didn't get lost or wander off trail at Farny State Park, although perhaps we should have-- let's call it skirting a creepy abandoned camp and wading through tick-infested tall grass during the hike's penultimate mile. 

June 2020: Water Lilies, Ghost Lake, Jenny Jump State Forest.

June 2020: Delaware Water Gap View, Jenny Jump State Forest.

June 2020: Navesink River Cove, Hartshorne Woods Park.

June 2020: Swan Scene, Cape May Point State Park.

June 2020: Milkweed That Looks a Bit Too Much Like Coronavirus, Thompson Park.

June 2020: Hereford Inlet, Wildwood, New Jersey.

In June, midway through the year's journey, the solstice sun high in the sky, the earth was flush with blooming things, twining vines, warm landscapes full of light and color. We revisited familiar parks-- a ramble through Thompson Park in Monmouth County, and a cobbled route through Jenny Jump State Forest in Warren County that took us by exquisite water lilies floating in Ghost Lake and up-up-up to an inspirational view of the Delaware Water Gap. We also travelled twice to South Jersey-- carefully planned ventures down the Garden State Parkway-- masks, hand sanitizer, reserve snacks, and personal pillow cases in tow. There were rewarding footsteps by day: beach hiking in Stone Harbor and Avalon, bird-spotting trails at Cape May State Park. And, oh my goodness, after the footsteps, Mack's Pizza for dinner. Curbside pickup felt like the finest dining.

July 2020: Green Brook Cascade, Watchung Reservation.

July 2020: Overlook, New York Brigade Trail, Jockey Hollow.

In July, we strayed a little less and stayed closer to home. I think we appreciated the restful rhythm of this season: morning walks before the heat of the day, domestic projects and gardening in afternoons and days off. Our trails were shorter, familiar; our adventures were smaller, quiet: July was a bit like catching up with old friends. And every time we walked away and back again, we were improved in some immeasurable way.

August 2020: On the Trail between The Bubbles and Connors Nubble, Acadia National Park.

August 2020: Rocky Shoreline, Compass Harbor, Acadia National Park.

In August, knowing that Summer days were waning, we embarked on a road trip to Maine. There was something immensely satisfying about hitting the road in this most unusual year: a sense of self-sufficiency and control in woefully insufficient, spinning-out-of-control times. The visit was wonderful: a little less crowded, a lot more socially-distanced than other years. The trails were steep, and they felt old and loved, wise and well-travelled. Clambering across rocky shorelines and gazing into tidepools, we found a new perspective on the Atlantic Ocean... the waves and lapping water... the same ocean that meets Ben's beach at Long Branch and shapes the picturesque point at Cape May.

September 2020: Everyone Getting Along at Kitchell Pond, Loantaka.

As the noise and complaint of election year neared crescendo pitch during the month of September, we turned more and more frequently to the benign sounds of local wildlife: chirping and quacking, occasional honking, over mean tweeting... peaceable splashing over snarky posting. Grandma Lebo used to say, If you can't say something nice, don't say it at all. I think a lot of grandmas used to say that. And so sometime in September, I began composing hiking haikus, because haikus tend to be nice.

October 2020: Lower Pond, Holmdel Park.

October 2020: Button Mushrooms, Lord Sterling Park.

October 2020: Cascades at Dismal Harmony Natural Area.

October 2020: Autumn at Dismal Harmony Natural Area.

October... Thoreau's month of painted leaves. Glorious color followed us through the month, filling our way with red and gold, orange and bronze. Three times on October hikes, I caught falling leaves-- with no great effort-- they just fell into my extended hand. I studied each of them briefly, tucked them into a pocket and took them home, saving them in a basket. I don't know what this means, or if it means anything at all... but it's nice to think so.

November 2020: Golden Leaves, Watchung Reservation.

November 2020: Geese by a Pond, Sourland Mountain Preserve.

November returned, marking a difficult anniversary, but also ushering in a time of gratitude for good memories, a season of giving thanks for simple gifts. We walked once more on leaf-covered trails, felt advancing chill in the air, in our bones. Daylight was waning, shadows deeper, colors muted, the landscape subdued and somehow more poignant, matching our general mood.

December 2020: Shy Wood Duck, Loantaka.

December 2020: Winterberries at Bamboo Brook.

December 2020: Jackson Brook Cascades, Hedden County Park.

Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn, and now Winter comes again. The landscape is distilled, reduced once more to bare branches and bones, almost architectural in beauty. Everything feels closer, more intimate. As we've moved amidst the distractions of December, past my sixtieth birthday, through the holidays, I've come to realize that it's no longer merely a matter of enjoying a daily walk. There's a need, a yearning. I yearn for the rhythm, for the beginning, the middle, the end. I yearn for the sense of getting away, even for a little bit, for getting outside in open air and moving beyond myself. I yearn for the time with Brad, walking and talking, or walking and not talking. I yearn for the returning, too, for arriving back home a bit more exercised and a bit more enriched than when I left. Winter again. At once, it warms my heart and breaks it a little bit. 

Rocky Shoreline, Little Hunters Beach, Acadia National Park.

As we've moved through this sometimes sad, often strange year, Brad has observed, We see what we need to see. So what did we see in 2020? An ancient oak tree, towering majestically at a turn in the trail. A striated boulder, transported to a mountaintop by a long-ago glacier. Multicolored rocks, tumbled across a lonely Maine beach. A solitary cumulus cloud, travelling across a cerulean summer sky. A golden gingko leaf, drifting to the ground on a fog-shrouded October morning. A shy wood duck, hiding in brook-side brush. An elegant water lily, suspended in still, silver water. A small pink flower, blooming in a forsaken crevice. We saw all of that and more, and over time and many miles, we came to understand that much of it meant something beyond what we name it, beyond binomial nomenclature, beyond dictionary definition. Here's a bit of what we found: despite the sadness, there is joy, simple, unanticipated joy to be felt every day. And beyond the strangeness, there is beauty-- uncomplicated, unexpected beauty-- every step of the way.

Pursue some path, however narrow and crooked, in which you can walk with love and reverence: Thoreau, once again, said it long ago and well. My New Year's wish for you, gentle blog reader, and for those you love best, is a wish for All of Us: that we see what we need to see. However narrow and crooked the path, I hope that in 2021, we saunter a few steps or trek many miles from our starting point: that we find a welcoming bench or a nice flat rock, a patch of cool green grass or a stretch of sandy beach, or even a squeaky backyard swing set and sit, taking a moment to take it all in. Contemplate our multifarious stories... our problems, our promise, our perspectives, our pettiness, our pursuits, our precious memories. How they merge and mingle and then break apart, scattering like stars on a moonlit New Year's Eve. Earth below, sky above, the blessed muddle in between-- and yes, those empty spaces-- we'll take it all in. The view, I suspect, will be alternately sad and strange, suffused with joy and tinged with heartbreaking beauty. It will leave us breathless. And then, after a time of rest and reflection we'll rise up and gather our gumption and resilience, collect our discernment, our courage and compassion, and continue the the journey, step by step.

I enjoy the beach when it’s dark and 15 degrees out. Happy New Year from the Jersey Shore. --Photo and Quote from Ben, 2018.