Trails
The air had an unusual warmth in it for early March. The setting sun shone down on the heaps of impassable snow buried between the close-knit groves of pine and ash trees. The ground was a bit slick as we stepped out of the car and made our way toward the Rainy Lake Visitor Center in Voyageurs National Park. My heart felt unusually heavy with grief as we stepped onto the sidewalk and the ice roads came into view.
Last summer the three of us (my wife, our dog Chewie, and I) visited Voyageurs for the first time ever. It was my birthday; and, being middle-aged, I didn’t make too much of that, but she wanted to do something special, so we spent the weekend in International Falls. We hadn’t traveled a lot for some time, and when we did, it was by car. Between the pandemic and Chewie’s poor health, flying anywhere just wasn’t an option anymore, and hadn’t been for some time. The little guy had a lot of energy on that trip—even moments of puppy-like playfulness as he explored our little room at the cabin or sniffed brand-new patches of grass or bounded out of the car into a big new park. He seemed really happy to be on the road again.
If you’ve been to national parks, you know most of them do not allow pets on most trails. There is, however, one major trail through Voyageurs that did allow us to bring him; and we took a nice walk down the paved trail last summer, amid the lakes and the pine trees and the wispy cirrus clouds. Chewie got too hot and we had to stop for some time—panting, he dug a little hole and lay in the cool, wet dirt to get his body temperature down. It was harder with his heart condition and medications to regulate his body temperature, but he was stubborn and didn’t save anything for the walk back. We sat on the bench beside him and poured him a big bowl of water and just admired the scenery for a while.
It was one of the last hikes we took together.
So, these months later, after Chewie’s passing in late January, it was particularly painful to return here now. I have long loved to spend time outdoors but have found it difficult at times lately. That is what I will remember most about the time Chewie and I spent together—all the long walks outside. When he and I were apart for any length of time, the first thing he wanted when he saw me was to go for a walk. There is a gut-wrenching grief that often comes with now planting my feet on those trails we once walked together. But that, as I will say more on below, is hardly the only emotion that surfaces.
We ambled past the now-closed visitor center to admire the frozen lake. A four-door sedan casually drove across the ice road through the middle of the lake—having lived in Texas for three decades, I’m not sure I’ll ever fully get used to that. Beyond the water, a collection of island groves, trees and water as far as the eye could see. You can easily see the southern border of Canada from the Minnesota side of Rainy Lake, but it doesn’t look any different—trees and lakes care not for the borders of nations.
After some deliberation we settled on a walk down the Oberholtzer trail—no pets allowed. Along the frozen water’s edge, amid the thick trees, the sun waning in the distance. We did not want to be out here after dark—darkness in the middle of the winter woods is not like darkness in the glow of urban artificial lights. It is coal-black and mercilessly cold and it is dangerous. The snow was packed hard with an icy upper crust, but we walked past benches that were almost completely covered up with snow, a reminder of the feet of ice we were trusting beneath our booted feet.
Less than an hour later we stood at the edge of the trail and gazed out on Black Bay. The cattails grew thick though they were dormant in the winter, a reminder that what is tundra in the colder months more closely resembles swamp when the ice releases its grasp in May, only to return in October. The airy hum of snowmobiles in the distance. Otherwise, silence. We laughed as we tried to sit on a metal bench mostly submerged in snow.
The walk back was quiet. Something happened on that walk. I still felt the grief of loss that occupied the silences between the bustle of everyday life. But something else began to take over: a sense that it was all part of something bigger, that life and death and light and darkness were all one and essential and part of a broader cosmic unity. I miss my best friend, but I will carry with me all that we experienced together—until the day that I, too am gone. I hope to have left behind some positive memories for others, as well, when my time comes. I also take with me, not only the memories, but an imperative—to live in such a way as to honor the memories of those lost along the way. One day we will all be gone; one day the sun will expand, and the earth will be roasted to a cinder, and the odds are probably against any humans still being around to see this. One day the universe will die a slow death of entropy (or perhaps be ripped apart by its own acceleration).
There is a nihilistic read on all of this—that none of it has any meaning because it will all end. However, I reach precisely the opposite conclusion: it matters precisely because it will end. Life is precious because it is finite; the life on this planet is worth revering and protecting because who knows how much other life there is in the universe. Maybe life is common, maybe not; I would wager that life resembling humans or dogs or trees isn’t that common out there because of all the unique events that had to take place “just so” for our kind of life to exist. And we may never encounter such life even if it does exist because the universe is so mind-bogglingly vast. The futurists dream of terraforming and colonizing other worlds. Maybe someday. But the technology, time, and costs seem hopelessly prohibitive in the short-term—especially when such resources could be spent much more efficiently, and with much greater certainty, safeguarding the life that already exists on a planet—a planet that we already know can support it.
I went for a walk in a park and came back with something that reminded me of what really drives me—in word and deed, in writing or singing or composing or studying social science and philosophy or any of the other numerous activities in which I’ve had the opportunity to take part. A reverence for life, for the living world. Loss still hurts, and there is no magic salve to soothe the pain of loss. Knowing that all is connected, and that everything will go on to become something else, does not take away the grief of losing a loved one. But it puts so much else in context.
As the sun sank below the horizon, I felt a bit of a grin cross my face. For a moment, I was at peace.
Image credit: Black Bay, Voyageurs National Park (photo by author)
In other news, “Faiths in Green” is now available in paperback [pre-order here]
