Not Alone

We say the sun comes up because it looks that way. But, really, if we could feel it, this planet, our singular home, tilting and spinning, we might call it something else.

Above the ocean, on the horizon, there is a fiery streak, a line of crimson that makes any person awake to see it come very awake. All else of the predawn sky is at its darkest.

And yet the glass greenhouse on the hill is perfectly positioned to capture that sliver of red light and send it like a flame to the flat geometry of its length and width. It doesn’t look anything like a greenhouse. It looks like science fiction — a portal, or a work of art, a scrim reflecting distant fire.

This, even in such a familiar place as home, reminds me how much more there is to see. After the seed order is done, I say a brief goodbye to my familiar, and subtlety never familiar, home and head south for a vacation in the sand hills of North Carolina.

I’ve been coming to this particular spot for years. This is horse country, this is golf country. Like my own home, there is a lot of construction and big parts of the landscape are for sale; cul-de-sacs spring up and spread.

Vacation need not include escape, but as I make my way to the trailhead and descend to join the network of equestrian and hiking trails that connect over something like 5,000 acres (most of it donated), I cannot wait to be alone.

These are managed forests, no longer logged but intentionally set on fire to both propagate the longleaf pine tree and control the tinderbox that forms beneath. Some of the shorter trails are busy, but farther in it grows very quiet and solitary. I rarely meet another person, and it is extremely rare for me to see one like me, alone, with binoculars.

Looking to make the beaver dam before it gets too dark, I’m stepping quietly but quickly. Then, ahead, though her back is to me, I see a woman with pigtails and a floppy hat, birdwatching. She is as still as a mannequin. I stop, step back and decide to take another loop down.

A few days later, I see her crossing the open meadow ahead of me. Again, I assume she hasn’t seen me, and so I stop to let more distance grow between us. I look through my binoculars: She is dressed in woodland colors, still the floppy hat, but her hair is not in pigtails. She has a bouncy step, and her binoculars are slung over her back, not to her side or front.

I watch bluebirds dropping from the tree line, bright blurs from tree to grass, tree to grass. There a few cardinals taking in the sun, bright red on the ivy vines. I watch the other birdwatcher vanish in the shady woods beyond before I begin down the same path.

Then, at nightfall, I have returned to a spot where I hear the soft occasional po-po-po of big but yet unseen owls. Ahead of me, again, is this woman. She, too, is standing, waiting, listening. Only, no owls tonight.

I assume she will turn and see me, but instead, reluctantly, she moves down the trail. I’d almost announced myself but decided against it, ultimately afraid of conversation with a stranger in the twilight. I wait awhile, hearing her bouncy footfalls grow distant; no leaves rustle, and it is growing very dark.

Then, suddenly, I am afraid of something else, like being alone. I begin to hurry out of the woods.

Before long, I can see her dark shape ahead of me and realize that, if she does look back now, my own dark shape will probably terrify her. I try to gauge the cordial distance, where I can call out, “Hello! I am behind you!”