S​aturday was like a Monet painting, peaceful and serene. The forest contained very little fall color except for the Maple trees, which were red like cherries. The light in this picture whispers Monet; the lily pads scream it. If today was a Monet, yesterday was a Jackson Pollok created with frantic self-induced chaos. Don’t get me wrong, I like and respect Pollock; I just don’t want to live in one of his paintings. 

I wandered the path of my imaginary impressionist painting. Things seemed to be happening high in the treetops. A black squirrel fussed as he flicked and waved his tail menacingly. Nuts dropped. Geese were moving loudly in formation. The sun was out, dappling the trail with light. I startled and was, in turn, started by huge birds, unexpectedly making their way out of a thicket, their wings beating loudly.

The trail ran along a low ridge in a swampy area thick with moss and ferns. The earth sounds hollow and feels soft, almost resilient under my boots. Dense layers of pine needles have built up over the years, their scent so sharp it stings the sinuses. The layer of pine needles is supported by an aged root system that winds deep into the soil. This area wasn’t planted. It’s ancient, wild and free like all the Native land in Michigan. You can tell by the trees, huge in variety, they aren’t in rows, and the brush is left to decompose. It provides shelter to the aforementioned critters and eventually nutrients to the next generation.

This beautiful old forest, the year could be 1921 or 2021.

Did women hike alone in Monet’s day? Did they wear dresses when they hiked? Boots and dresses? Would I even be alive? What was the life expectancy? I might perch myself on a log and have a picnic with my arugula, spinach and blueberry salad like a lady instead of eating it with my fingers out of a resealable bag while I walk. I giggle at the contrast.