Opportunities for virtuous deeds or black-hearted thinking occur regularly for me, the former readily embraced when I pay attention, and the sneakiness or all-too-humanness of the latter trip me up when I don’t. A perfect example of this occurred on the outskirts of Milford, New Hampshire, during a recent visit to Purgatory Falls, appropriately named for how I felt that day.
An early morning downpour left the dirt parking lot at the trailhead puddled and muddy. Two junkie-looking cars occupied more than their fair share of parking space. The white Honda’s lower side-panels and wheel-wells were eaten through with rust, and the dirty Ford pick-up had no hub caps and a bald spare for a left rear tire.
Rushing to judgment, I notice such things and wish I didn’t.
At the trailhead’s entrance, I encountered a glass-encased bulletin board with trail map and hiker information, but the footlocker-sized boulder next to it captured my attention and intrigued me. On its uneven surface were two rocks, a large zucchini-shaped stone had been balanced atop a walnut-sized one whose rough and rounded surface nonetheless kept the large stone upright and perfectly balanced.
Kids, maybe, I thought, and began the 10-minute hike to Lower Purgatory Falls.
The post-downpour scattering of showers had stopped and an eerie stillness surrounded me as I walked into the forest. Red oak and white pine trees provided a partial canopy and combined with the low-lying cloud cover increased the ghostly atmosphere of the woods.
A palpable feeling of being watched accompanied me as I navigated over and around slippery rocks, exposed tree roots, and pooling waters.
Certain that the lush greenery was hiding watchful eyes, I stopped on occasion, held my breath and listened for sounds in the silence. None occurred and I resumed my short trek. The white blazes, appropriately spaced along the path, allayed any fears I had. Though no one walked within earshot of me, it was clear this was a well-trodden path.
The sound of falling water distracted me from the mysterious silence of the woods, and when I reached the crest of a small knoll the falls appeared. Seated beneath where I stood were four people hunkered down between two jagged rocks, two scruffy-looking men, a scantily clad woman–all three tatted–and what appeared to be the woman’s three- or four-year old daughter. The adults were passing a glass pipe, homemade bong and either doing crack cocaine or smoking weed.
Trying not to stare, I made my way down the path as the little girl waved and smiled. I returned her gestures and gave an impassive head nod to the three adults. Their inscrutable nodding acknowledged and mimicked mine.
Moving away from them, I found a rock on which to sit and take in the falls and rock formations. I could not “move away” from the intrusive judgmental thinking, though, that their presence triggered.
What low-lifes to be doing drugs with a child present. Am I safe, and what about the child? Should I say something? No, of course not, and mind your own business!
The restlessness persisted as I left my perch to hike above the falls, wanting another vantage point from which to view the falling water, but also physical exertion to rid myself of the unwanted thoughts. After walking around the higher-ground I climbed down to again sit by the darkened pool of water beneath the falls.
The group had split up, the woman sat on a log above the water’s edge, the bearded fellow had lifted the youngster onto his shoulders, where she sat giggling and pointing at the falls. The third adult, the bald-headed younger man had walked out to a slab of rock, a promontory that jutted out above the pool, about thirty feet from me, and surrounded himself with an assortment of multi-shaped and -sized rocks he’d pulled from the water’s edge. He began arranging them one on top of the other—an unimaginable balancing of size and shape that reminded me of hoodoos and fairy chimneys I’d seen in Utah and Arizona.
Mesmerized by his focus, gentle touch, and selective sculptor’s eye for fitting large and small, rough and smooth stones into a pattern, I watched a sculpture take exquisite shape, a creation of beauty I suspect only he envisioned.
When he finished, or stepped back to view his work, I walked over to him and said, “Very impressive and beautiful.”
He replied, “Thank you, I do this all the time. I have poor balance, an equilibrium issue that prevents me from doing many normal activities. But I have an uncanny sense of balance when it comes to arranging and shaping articles provided by nature.” He turned around and pointed to a tapestry of leaves and twigs behind him. “I did this before you came.” The multi-tiered leaf and wood structure was stunning in design and color.
“You’re very talented,” I said, “between your creations and the falls I’m in the presence of the holy.”
“You and me both,” he replied, and we shook hands.
I returned to the parking lot in a state of “forest-bathing” as the woods and nature wrapped itself around me—filled with the beauty a man created, someone I’ll most likely never see again, but will also never forget. No threatening creatures stalked the woods as I walked back to the car, nor did black-hearted thoughts pervade my thinking as I stopped to admire the two rocks gingerly balanced at the trailhead—unperturbed in their fragile yet strong presence.
by 
Great story and well told. It immediately occurred to me that you had your own sort of “woman at the well in Samaria” experience. Not the experience that Jesus had since he already knew who she was. Rather, the experience of a careful reader of that gospel story. Thanks for putting that story into a contemporary frame.
Ted,
Thank you, and though both stories had water and holiness present, and I’m grateful for being privy to the sculptors handiwork at this end, only one had the Nazarene present in the flesh–I’d loved to have been a hidden creature (frog) at the well–heard his voice, and seen her expression.
Roger
It would never have occurred to me that the description of the drug indulging, scruffily clad folks would come across
as holy…..or that the falls and the man with poor balance, save for working with nature would remind Ted of the Samarian woman Jesus met at the well. Obviously, my imagination needs improving. But, Roger, I am continually impressed with your writing skill. You might not be able to balance rocks, but your ability to enlighten through your
story telling, verbally and in writing, is a wonderful treasure. Thanks for sharing your treasure with others!!! Now
looking forward to breakfast with you, Ted and other men, this Saturday! Jed Hornung
Jed,
Thank you for reading, commenting and your kind encouraging and supportive comments. It may not be that your imagination “needs improving,” but rather one of those special moments when you just had to be there–my words don’t do justice to holiness, it just is.
Roger
What a beautifully written story, Roger. I immediately fell into the world you created and described so vividly. I’m impressed, too, how you take yourself on hikes. To be surrounded by the beauty of nature with just yourself would be holy indeed, like a surfer inside the curl of a wave. I didn’t want your story to end.
Jo Anne,
Thank you for coming into this ‘world’ “surrounded by the beauty [and mystery] of nature.” The story will continue albeit in new forests, on different paths, but with similar mistakes and wonderments!
Roger