Running with the herd

This past weekend, while my boyfriend’s family was up visiting, we went to Robinette’s Sunday afternoon to run the Dirty Herd 5k. I had been scouring the internet the week before, searching desperately for a 5k that I could afford. When I came across the Dirty Herd 5k, I paused. Not only was the event completely free, they were also having runners test out trail shoes and they were giving away donuts and cider afterwards. I was immediately sold and registered Adam and myself for the run.

We arrived five minutes before the race started on Sunday and unfortunately, as hard as I tried, I could not find a single pair of trail shoes in my size. I guess 8.5 is a common girls’ foot size. Adam was able to successfully secure a pair, as I stood grumbling in the cold. I had not had time to meticulously pick out the perfect running outfit, rather I had just grabbed whatever I could find in the short amount of time I had. Unfortunately, what I had grabbed were a pair of black shorts and a long-sleeved tech shirt. I had at least enough sense to grab a sweatshirt before I left.

As the race horn blared, everyone proceed to run towards us in the opposite direction in which we were running. Hastily readjusting ourselves, we were back on track with the unified mass of runners. It started off well, running through a crowded parking lot full of cars. As we took our first turn, we were met by a massive bottleneck. The entire trail run was to take place on a trail that was no more than a foot wide. The race had come to a standstill as people took their turns entering the trail. We waited at least five minutes before we were even able to get started on the trail. Once we were inside, I was in awe. 

We went from being out in the vast openness of the farm into a dense, untouched wilderness. The small path wound through thick underbrush, where often times you had to slow down to climb over large decaying logs and branches. The sunlight filtered down through the thick array of orange and red autumn leaves. The pushing and shoving of the racers behind me kept bringing me back to the reality that this was not a pleasure run. I frequently stopped, stepping aside to let other runners pass me, just so I could look up at the beauty I was engulfed in. I had difficulty keeping track of Adam; there were several times during the run that I turned around to check on him only to discover that he’d been swallowed by the sea of runners. 

My favorite part of the 5k, excluding the donuts and cider, was when we ran through a section of the wooded trail that reminded me of my home in the woods. The tall pines were evenly paced out on either side of the trail like soldiers. The trail itself had widened to about 2 feet, which allowed for Adam and I to run side-by-side. When we started to reach the end of the run, as we exited the forest, we took a turn down an aisle of apple trees. We ran past groups of people eager to get the last apples on the nearly naked apple trees. 

When we got to the end, completely out of breath from running the trail, we were informed we had actually ran the 2.5k instead of the 5k. We gave up and treated ourselves to some well-deserved apples and cider. I’m hoping to go back out to the same trail again this weekend, to more fully immerse myself in the natural beauty of the old trail and to show it more appreciation than it saw last weekend.

The Empty Forest

Tuesday night, I tagged along with my boyfriend to his intermural softball game. He wanted to arrive twenty minutes before the game started to get in some additional practice, so I hesitantly agreed to leave early. Even though I’ve been to his games dozens of times, and honestly once you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, I went along for moral support. We drove to a nearby park and the sun was already low in the sky. As I stepped out into the darkness, I shuffled slowly behind him as he tread hastily to join his teammates.

For the longest time, I stood in silence, quivering with each bone-chilly gust of wind. The teams practiced for the game, chucking balls across the vacant field at each other, quite a few of them missing me by mere inches. My eyes weren’t on the lit baseball field, nor on the stands where older men half-drunkenly catcalled the young female players with Miller Lite in their hands. Rather, my eyes laid on the forest. I’d been to Riverside Park several times before, for picnics and games, but never before at night. Let alone on a late October night such as this one.

No crickets chirped happily as they did in the late summer nights. No birds cheeped or screeched at each in the branches of the trees as they did in the early months of spring. No owls stood watch over the field as they had in the earlier months of fall. No deer explored the twilight wonderland as they did in the spring with newborn fawns at their side. Nothing but silence and darkness. Vast darkness, expanding and engulfing the trees, swallowing them. Lonely darkness without life. The kind of lonely, empty darkness that only the haunting month of October can brew.

The darkness was haunting, but it gave the familiar forest a fresh personality. The adventurer in me told me to venture out into the darkness. Whenever I would feel the urge to stray away from the blindingly brilliant bright light of the stadium, a little voice would always whisper in my ear, “but, what if….”. There were so many if’s and why’s to explain my reasons from straying. Rapists, murderers, raccoons, getting lost, the list went on. Something about the daringness of the trees to stand as solemnly and strongly as they did in the darkness made me want to join.

Meanwhile, in the background I heard the elder men in their camouflage jackets catcalling, bringing me back to reality. The empty forest was still there, watching the game as it always did, enduring and witnessing man’s undertakings. Calling out to those readily and willingly seeking comfort in the dense forest’s embrace. As I turned away, I felt as though I was turning my back on an old friend, and slowly walked away.

My Wanderings along the River

Throughout my life (or at least the part of my life that I have lived in Michigan), I have always had a close tie with large bodies of water. I enjoyed chilly fall afternoons as a child canoeing down the river in Rockford with my family. Fall is the best time to go canoeing, late September and earlier October in particular. The leaves have just started to change but the weather is still relatively warm. The sound of the paddle gently caressing the water, releasing resounding ripples that bounce off nearby stones. The cozy houses nestled along the riverside seem lifeless as they fade into the scenery. Every so often, a dog will come bounding down from one of the houses to greet us.

I have never found anything more peaceful, or exciting, than canoeing or kayaking. The unexpectedness, the unknown, the unpredictability of the ebbing and flowing of the current is what makes the adventure. When I would happen across a fork in the current, I would always chose the course with more rocks and rapids. I love a good challenge.

My abilities as a kayaker were put to the test when I went white water rafting in West Virginia during my senior year of high school. I went with a small group of people, no more than eight including myself. The cliffs, like skyscrapers, towered above me as I paddled along the winding river. Without any cover, the intense heat of the sun beat down on our small band continuously throughout the day. At one point during our voyage, I carelessly dipped my hand into the cooling water, submerging myself within the refreshing coolness. However, my peaceful state was quickly disrupted when I glanced over the side to see what I thought was a large log drifting past me. As I looked closer, I came to realize that this immense log had a head with beady little eyes. My paddle suddenly became a weapon.

 I began frantically swinging and smashing my paddle into the water in self-defense. The other members of my time inquired what had happened. Frantically, in short desperate gasps, I cried, “snake, there was definitely a very large snake in the water”. They dismissed my experience and decided it was a good idea to take a swim. I refused to leave my kayak the remainder of the voyage.

These experiences with water have brought me even closer to nature. I couldn’t even imagine living in a city that didn’t have a lake or river nearby. That’s what I love about Grand Rapids. Could you live somewhere that didn’t have nature nearby?