This Land

One never knows, she thought, looking up at the clearing sky as she pulled herself out of her soggy tent and stretched her long arms toward the rising sun. She was eager to climb the mountain, but not if it was going to rain some more. Everything sparkled as the sun sang through the dripping leaves and spider webs after three days of rain. The birds were chirping their little hearts out and a few chickadees greeted her from the nearest branches. The air smelled so fresh she was sure this was the day for the climb. She’d never lived anywhere else with such changeable weather. Or maybe she was more tuned to weather since she was out in it all the time. She imagined herself running up the mountain and down again before the dark clouds of the last three afternoons could gather to gossip and scold, warning her to lay low. But then she saw herself sliding down the muddy slopes and decided to wait until noon for the ground to dry out. After quickly building a fire, she went down to the stream to wash her face, brush her teeth and fill her canteen for the hike. She loved the simplicity of this life in the woods: water from the stream, potential fire from sticks on the ground, a tent for shelter, and the trees for conversation. In preparation for her hike, she threw an extra pair of sturdy socks, the bright ones her friend Elena had given her for her birthday, and a long-sleeved sweatshirt, the one with the wolf on it, into a small knapsack, along with a couple of apples and some t.p.. She was wearing her shorts, t-shirt and hiking boots. Then she brewed her coffee, poured in a generous dollop of milk from a container cooling in the stream, and, her mind a rare and pleasant blank, sat there sipping as she watched the rising light reach more and more of the pine needles around her. By midmorning the sky was such a pure shade of Adirondack blue that she couldn't wait another minute. She was ready to take the risk. She fluffed out her untamed hair, leapt up, slipped the knapsack over her shoulder, hopped across the rocks in the stream and strode up the old logging trail to the foot of the mountain. Ahead of her she heard scurrying and looked up to see a raccoon scamper up a tall tree, surprised by her sudden appearance. Equally curious, they peered at each other for a few minutes, then Abby kept going. Three days cooped up inside the tent had put cramps in her legs and she was eager to stretch them before the climb got steeper. She glanced up a few times to search for the owls who’d hooted all night across the stream from her tent, but didn't really expect to see them. When the logging trail ran out, she followed what looked like a deer path. Sure enough, as she rounded a curve next to a huge outcrop of rocks, two deer leapt across her path, amazing her by their grace and the rich reddish brown of their coats. She passed tiny waterfalls, their sides lined with plush green moss, small caves full of eyes, and trees so entwined you couldn't tell where one began and the other ended, though one was a birch and the other a maple. She sighed, remembering Beth and their first idyllic days together. As the deer trail angled up the mountain, she felt the presence of a sheer rock cliff looming above her and decided to veer off the path and up onto the ledge above the cliff. This proved easy enough if she watched her feet carefully for loose rocks and exposed roots. She loved the pounding of her heart and the sprinkling of sweat as she climbed, that exhilaration of feeling cleansed as her lungs pulled in fresher and fresher air. As she wound through the trees rooted on the ledge, she looked out over the valley she had just left behind. She found that if she climbed out on a large grey rock, she could see sunlight shining from the beaver pond below, could hear a car winding along the dirt road near the spot where she was camped. The breeze moved its soft fingers through her hair and she felt a glimmering of peace. All this in front of her was their land. She still couldn't believe it. This is ours, she said to herself and to the generations before her, her people dispossessed, confined to the villages/shetels between pogroms. But as soon as she said it, this is ours, she whispered "Kunahara," to placate the evil eye who scorned such claims as "mine" and "ours," who would snatch something away before one had scarcely received it: Enough already. You should be so lucky? So instead of glorying in ownership, albeit collective, she focused on a scrubby pine whose roots had to reach around the huge rock it was growing on. It was only a matter of time before a powerful wind or torrential rains wrenched it from its tenuous grip. So much for the view, she finally thought, leaping up. Continuing up the mountain, she found another animal trail which circled around the southern curve of the slope. She started to follow it. But a voice inside told her instead to follow the light and as she looked up, she saw sun rising above the hemlock grove above her, so she headed straight up without much effort. Her legs were strong already from hiking and climbing and exploring this land they'd bought together last fall. None of the others had come yet to stay, but as soon as the deed was granted and black fly season over, she arrived to camp for the summer. Beyond the hemlocks she came to a clearing, a tangle of downed trees and underbrush and wondered what could have caused so much destruction. A monster storm? Trees that were left standing had huge gashes on their sides, as if bears had been clawing them. Then she saw muddy tracks of huge trucks and realized that loggers must have bulldozed their way all the way up here to take down the straight trees and leave those which were crooked or dying, too large or too small. It looked like they'd come this spring, in fact, after the land had been sold--log poachers. How can we protect this land from such invasions? she wondered. With ownership came responsibility. But would protecting it, and us, mean keeping people out? Building fences? Drawing lines? Making this beautiful, unbounded place into private property? Wasn't private property the root of capitalist exploitation? Quickly she scrambled across the fallen logs and through thick berry bushes which had grown up in the cleared space and headed for the woods again. Beyond the trees she could see the summit and perhaps a view of the other side of the mountain. She loved this feeling of stretching out into new territory, both the physical release of freedom of movement and the discoveries that followed. The higher she climbed, the more her sense of responsibility dropped away. What wasn't at hand to be fixed or comforted fell from her mind's eye. The more she focused on following the sunlight which darted through the trees, at times peeking over the highest leaves, the easier it was to forget the troubles which lay below her: the teaming masses longing to breathe free. At the summit was a grassy meadow full of wildflowers. A surprise. No view to speak of because it was surrounded by towering trees. But such a peaceful spot. She stretched out in the grass, soaked uthe sun and watched the sky. Only the wispiest of clouds drifted by. No sign of rain. She was startled to notice her eyes were damp with relief. Rather than dwelling on her feelings, though, she entertained herself by watching the rainbows which played through the sunlight on her wet eyelashes. This was bliss. All one needed to do was rise above it all, get the bigger picture, let the worries drift out of one's hands and into the eye of G-d or the all-that-is. She sat up and propped herself against a rock. Never one to loll around she was surprised at how easy it was at that moment. Just then she heard something coming down the trail. She sat very still and watched. It was a dog. What was a dog doing way up here all by itself?