If the function of a writer is to write, which it is, I haven’t been very functional lately. Feast and famine cycles aren’t new to me, but at least over the course of this latest dry spell I enjoyed the company of my son Graham who had been working with me while on his winter break from college.
We were preparing for a snowshoe event coming up in Eagle River. Breaking trail, cutting and splitting wood for campfires, hauling straw bales for folks to sit on. Being together in the January northwoods. It was a joy to have him up here with me, especially in the evenings. He’s a good cook, a good companion, and as this time together reinforced, a good man.
It’s been a real January in the north woods. Working off a long list of tasks with a deadline, we allowed the weather to arrange their completion, or at least the time of day when they might be done. Sometimes breakfast would take a little longer than needed while the temperature was allowed to rise a bit, and the indoor tasks generally took a morning slot, chains to be sharpened, signs to be built.
And then it was a dad and a son and a dog in the woods and they don’t make weather bad enough to spoil that.
The snowbound woods were silent but for snowshoed feet making our way. One of us stopped now and again to point at some scene as beautiful as another we’d just passed, or to identify a good spot for a trail marker. Words weren’t needed but sometimes we’d string a couple together as if we were supposed to. Together we enjoyed the woodland solitude. The Germans, ever efficient in their vernacular, call it waldeinsamkeit, and with similar efficiency we placed one foot in front of the other leaving marks in both the snow and our memories. Arlo scoffed altogether at the concept of efficiency and crossed our trail repeatedly, coming from places we may never lay eyes on.
With another set of tasks checked off we gather our chill and our tools and bring them back to the farmhouse for some warmth and a meal. Out of the woods the words flow more freely. A recap of the day between mouthfuls and some thoughts on what tomorrow might hold with the weather checked. An evaluation of what worked and what didn’t with how we were dressed and what might be changed tomorrow. Glances down at Arlo who will be licking his paws well into the evening.
On one particular evening conversation went well past when the old man typically retired. The younger was enthusiastic in his want to discuss all things celestial, the physical universe and the confounding notion that it bears an edge. Time and space and spacetime, God and physics and questions without answers. A father and son and waldeinsamkeit. A dog licking its paws. A different kind of trail was broken that evening, winding unmarked through mysteries and circling back upon itself. Each of us stopping at different points suggesting that here might be a good spot for a trail marker. The bed was soft that night.
Then another January morning and a breakfast that took a little longer than needed.