The Silent, Gentle Mist

By Rosanne Gulisano

Walking in the autumn mist is as different as night and day from walking in the sunshine. I park my car at a wide spot in the road near the entrance to the deserted forest preserve bike trail on this misty November morning. Very early morning is the best time for inner communication and blissful quiet.

Gentle is the perfect word for this weather and this walk. Silent is another. Winter’s icy grip is still a few weeks away, yet no one else ventures out in the misty haze. The path is noiseless and devoid of other human presence. On this chilly, late autumn day, most avid walkers of summer have hung up their hiking shoes for the season. My footfalls create what seems like an enormous din in the quiet. Leaves rustle as squirrels busily go about their winter preparations, storing food and ready their housekeeping arrangements for the long winter ahead. A woodpecker beats his rhythm on a leafless tree trunk. A pair of cardinals calls to each other as they swoop across the path a few yards ahead of me, he bright red, she a muted taupe. The earth has settled down to rest under a thick blanket of leaves.

My feet tread along a path once occupied by twin steel rails and creosote-soaked wooden ties. In its past life, this was the path of a freight line connecting distant cities and towns, the lifeline of passengers and goods that gave this county its flow of settlers and commerce. Now only the ghostly sentinels of rotted and broken power poles still stand amidst the skeletal tree branches to stand as witnesses to the history of this trail.

The stark limbs of the trees form a gothic-looking tunnel over the top of the trail. Nature’s cathedral emerges before me and my feet follow its long nave.

Suddenly, magically, there is a louder rustle off to my left. Three white-tailed deer bound away, startled by my appearance. One stops and turns her wide-eyed face to watch me pass, her large ears up and tuned to my every sound and movement. I have invaded their territory and they reproach me with silent stares, wary of the intrusion.

Overhead, a V-formation of honking Canada geese call to each as they pass closely by, the sound of their wings breaking the stillness as they fly in precise rhythm. They follow the centuries old migratory path instinctively established by past generations.

My legs grow tired, time passes quickly, the window of opportunity for morning reflection begins to close. All too soon, my communion with nature in this peaceful place must come to an end. Reluctantly, I turn to walk back toward my civilized world. Thoughts of the day ahead crowd away the magic. I gradually become aware of the distant hum of the nearby highway, constant and relentless. I feel refreshed and grateful for my brief moments away from the pace of the new millennium and grateful for places like these.