Avoiding the spring at Bennett Spring State Park

This is a blufftop view in Bennett Spring State Park, sans trail (but closest to Natural Tunnel Trail). It may not be technically in the park; it may not have been legal to be up there. But there were no signs and in that moment a day or two after Thanksgiving I felt like the world was mine, and no documents could say otherwise. Who can own a landscape?

Holidays mean Bennett Spring as much as they do Grandma's cookies and old familiar quilts. As I get older, I explore new places and notice new patterns. I love the spring, but there's more out there.

I love how far you can see in the woods in the winter, all the dips and densities and exact location of sycamore trees.

The stream bed and trailside are flanked by dry seed pods that stand about calf-height. When you brush past or stand and shiver in a stand of them, a tinny sound rises from the earth, like walking on wet gravel. The plants and rocks are a constant companion, and I'm fascinated by how they make such a fanfare.

This tree reminded me of hardscrabble Ozark mountain folk. I admire any plant that endures high winds in exchange for killer views.

By the way, I'm accepting donations for a new camera.

Imagine hiking in the woods, counting the minutes until you had to turn back before darkness. It's a trail close to home, but a trail you don't know. You've turned back, things are turning indigo, you walk quicker, breath huffing and then — blazes. A bluff face lit up orange. It takes your breath away, and you notice a huge, round hole in the rock. We should bring back legends for our thresholds.