The first time I clambered beneath the cedars trees along this steep muddy bank, we were eagerly experiencing the sights of our new neighborhood for the very first time. On the recommendation of a dear friend, we drove up through the Bigfork State Forest, on a narrow strip of asphalt hedged by endless miles of black swamp water and stunted spruce. There, tucked away in an obscure little park, we found the Bigfork River rushing it’s way to Canada across a set of Class III-IV rapids. It was not quite Niagara Falls, but it was an exciting stretch of river that we could hear the thunder of before we saw it.
Today, almost exactly six years later, I’m on the same narrow trail, and I find that little has changed since then, as far as the river is concerned. It’s still flowing faithfully. The rocks cradling it show no visible signs of erosion. The tumbling water still curls over that one giant boulder out in the middle in exactly the same way.
The changes that have occurred have been in my own life, and I’ve brought them with me. My firstborn clambers ahead of me on this Sunday afternoon, reaching sweetly back to offer me a hand on the “hard parts”. She’s not strong enough yet to really help, but I pretend to accept her offer anyway, marveling privately at how quickly life flies by. Last time on this trail I was six months pregnant with her, not even a year married. Now she’s out there confidently posing on the lichened rocks while I snap pictures and punctuate my sentences anxiously with “be careful” and “that’s close enough”. My husband is back up the trail, holding the hands of her two little sisters, who we had only dreamed of at that point.
On the other hand, one thing hasn’t changed about me. Apparently, being pregnant, even for the fourth time, still has little bearing on my eagerness to bypass the safely situated visitor’s viewing platforms to get up close to rushing water.
Last time I was here, I saw the elusive woodcock for the first time in my life, exploding up at my feet from what had appeared to be merely a pile of leaves. Today the only wildlife is the bed of fluffy foam caught in an out-of-the-way nook beneath the falls, looking strikingly like the back of a very furry animal as it bobs gently in the current. I smile when my daughter asks worriedly with big eyes: “Mommy, is that a bear?” “Go poke it and see,” I counter slyly. She laughs out loud at herself when she discovers that it’s pure fluff.
As we climb back up the river bank, I note the mosses cropping up lush and verdant at my feet, and the first signs of life at the tips of the tree branches arching over my head. Spring is just waking here, reminding me of a sleepy, groggy two-year-old toddling out to snuggle with me on the couch in the morning, or maybe the four-year-old rolling over in the cocoon of her favorite penguin blanket and blinking sleepily at the morning light coming through her window. Everything still has that just-got-out-of-bed look, still a little rumpled and squinty-eyed.
The most showy are the pussy willows, who have clearly gone from stage 1, silky and pearly gray, to stage 2, fluffy and lemon-lime yellow. Also lovely at the tips of the maple branches exploding into bits of red, more showy up close than from a distance. And then on the forest floor, I see the bravely emerging leaves of hepatica. Leaning down to feel beneath the leaves, I find what I’m looking for at the base of the plant: the downy heads of flower buds just emerging. A couple more days, and there will be wildflowers in the woods.
Back up at the picnic area, we shake what mud we can off our shoes and take a last-minute trip to the nearby outhouse where we convince the girls that it’s safe to seat yourself over a deep, dark, echoing hole receding into the unknown depths of the earth. Then we head out down the winding dirt road. Tired little people quickly nod off into belated naps, and the thunder of the falls fades into fiddle music cranked up to keep their parents from following suit on the journey home.
It’s good to know that as my own life shifts and changes, a wild river running north is still there, doing it’s God-ordained thing and fulfilling it’s purpose pretty much the same as always.
“All the rivers flow into the sea,
Yet the sea is not full.
To the place where the rivers flow,
There they flow again.” (Ecclesiastes 1:7)
The leaves are changing, they said way too early in August—and they were right. It started with a premature crimson splash here and there. But soon the green of summer was transitioning full speed to yellow, orange, brown and crimson of autumn. Fall was here.
I drive down the road in a windstorm, and a rainbow of leaves swirls down from the sky like confetti. This is their fate. Magical to me, the end of life for them.
Elusive as change is to nail down, however, there’s one sure thing about it, and it’s that change is as inevitable to life as autumn is to the circle of seasons. It will come. And sometimes that’s a fearful thing to us humans who like to map out our yearly planners months in advance and make our tidy little five, ten and twenty-year plans for success. Even joyful changes can create stress by throwing off schedules.
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8)
If you walk out into the middle of the woods and stand very still for a while, a very delightful thing will happen.
You’ll note a tiny clump of British soldier lichen clinging to the edge of a mossy stump that would have only registered “green” in hurried passing.
You’ll tip your head up and see the beginning of the swelling red of the maple buds overhead, fanned against the sky.
You’ll notice the delicate lacy veins of last year’s leaves, splendidly illuminated in the morning sunlight, and also the way a certain flap of simple birch bark is catching the sun just right to make it glow.
Your eyes will follow the slant of a fallen log down to a hole and, well, look! The very culprit of the rustling himself appears.
There is no shortcut to the gifts that come from being still, but they are always incredibly, beautifully worth it. And, incidentally? The same is said for the soul and the best gift one could ever ask for.
Where do you look when you are hiking through the autumn forest?
Do you look straight ahead, at the path winding mysteriously out of sight and beckoning you on? At the receding layers of craggy barked tree trunks marching along its edges, with the occasional surprise mushroom accessory? Or at the jaunty straw hat and satisfyingly fall-ish plaid shirt of a walking companion ahead?
Or do you look down? Down at the dainty trailing vines between the tufts of orange pine needles, and the tidily capped wee mushrooms springing whimsically up along the damp mosses of aging stumps? At the calico of autumn leaves softly layering over the creeping cedar and wintergreen?
While I was hiking with relatives recently, we talked about this, and discovered that our answers differed. Some in our hiking party were more inclined toward one than the other, therefore each bringing their own unique perspective to the commentary that enlivened our exploration of the forest.
The Bible calls these things gifts, and they are. Sometimes, though, I think we can lose sight of this in the nitty-gritty of real life. It can be easy, for instance, to get annoyed with that other person who is always worried about mowing the grass (looking at mushrooms) when you’d rather be discussing the accuracy of the latest Bible translation (looking down the path)—or vice versa. However the fact is that each perspective is valuable and needed, and they’re all meant to weave together in harmonious balance, not at odds with each other.
“Just as each of us has one body with many members, and not all members have the same function, so in Christ we who are many are one body, and each member belongs to one another.
Ah, peak of fall. We just finished that splendid time of year in which they mark little roads around here with signs designating them as part of the “Fall Color Tour”, and if you take one, you should be prepared to drive very slowly. That is, at least if I’m in the car and have my camera along (wink).
“Shout joyfully to God, all the earth… 
Sing the glory of His name; Make His praise glorious… 
Say to God, “How awesome are Your works!…
All the earth will worship You, and will sing praises to You…
Come and see the works of God, who is awesome in His deeds toward the sons of men…
Bless our God, O peoples, and sound His praise abroad.” (Psalm 66:1-5, 8)
Rejoicing Hills 