The first rule of trail running is:
Don’t fall down, roll your ankle, fall off the
cliff, get hit by descending mountain bikers, crash into the random Japanese
tourist doing shinrin-yoku or forest bathing, get eaten by a
bear, molested by bees, or run face first into that tree branch that you
should have seen coming.
Sounds easy enough.
I've run in the deserts of the Southwestern States
and the Middle East. I've run on pavement and dirt trails all across the world.
I've run marathons in Texas, D.C., New Mexico, and Hawaii.
I've never run on trails like these: East Coast
forests in the coastal plain, right at the height of autumn, with soft dirt
paths surrounded by endless trees.
We had planned to explore a new trail every
weekend, but quickly subsumed to our three favorites.
And, as we ran deeper into autumn, we watched the
world change around us.
Everywhere we looked, the leaves were aflame with vibrant
oranges and yellows; many had already fallen and cushioned the ground in a
blanket of wet, brown tetrahedrons of dead leaves.
They also hid the ankle breaking rocks and roots.
But, in the end, we both survived.
Trail running in these forested paths has been a
lesson in life and change. As the autumn wore on, the forest transformed before
our eyes. Our first runs were through a forest aflame with the early days of
fall, the leaves under our feet still wet and cushioning every footfall. The
walls of trees were still thick with their vibrant garb, hanging thickly and
obscuring both vision and sound from carrying far. Squirrels rustling through
the leaves moved unseen and nearly silent apart from their intermittent chatter
or light crunch in a pile of dead and dried debris.
As the months wore away, the air cooled and the
land drifted towards its long sleep. We exchanged shorts, t-shirts, and hats
for warm caps, tights, and jackets. The ground hardened, and the leaves that
had wetly cushioned our footfalls before now crackled loudly with every step.
The acrid smell of sawdust permeated each breath; thousands of leaves ground to
powder under the feet of passersby. Each carefully placed step of a squirrel
now echoed through the brush, sharp staccatos rebounding off the bark and
magnified through the forest. Bird cries shrieked through the treetops. Intermittent
wafts of wood smoke drifted from barely hidden homes fighting off the morning
chill.
Change happened swiftly even during a single run.
As the sun rose, the ground changed, ice thawed and became slick,
wooden footbridges dried out. The air became less harsh, snowflakes giving way
to sunshine and warmth.
As with life, change is constant. Before, I had
thought upon winter as a time of dying trees and bare, forbidding woods. Now, I
understand a little better just how a forest can fall asleep, while also coming
to life.
Winter isn’t about things ending; it’s about life
transforming and changing. All it took was a little trip to the East Coast to
watch autumn fall to teach me a little about life.
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