Lake Elmo Park Reserve, Afton State Park, revisited

Tree on prairie, Afton State Park

I decided to shake up the ol' morning routine a bit this weekend. Oh, don't get too excited—I still had my requisite three cups of chest-hair-stimulating coffee each morning, still had to check in on the internet for good hour or so to see how the world is surviving without my presence (it is)—but instead of walking Rocco up and down the streets our our quiet country neighborhood, I hog-tied and corralled him into the Jeep (he'sl still having issues with cars, we're still working on it) and headed to Lake Elmo Park Reserve on Saturday, and hit Afton SP this morning. Lake Elmo PR, just down the road from our house off County Road 10, is a huge county park and rivals many state parks in heft and girth, as well as solitude (if you can transcend the intermittent gunshots puncturing the silence from its neighbor, Oakdale Gun Club). Supposedly, there's no chance of being hit by a stray bullet, but I tend to avoid the path that is directly adjacent to the range. At some point, the shooting eventually ceases, literally or figuratively, and the park pulls you in to its beauty.

LEPR is an astounding, beautifully blended melange of vast wild lands and equally vast, well-planned development, something for everyone. A person could lose herself among the expansive hills and valleys and woods and swamplands (and I have), if not for the castle-like state-of-the-art playgrounds and picnic shelters that pierce the horizon now and then, divulging safety and civilization and thus, saving and re-orienting my sorry ass. There's even a swimming "hole" in the midst of this immense wilderness—a ginormous man-created, sand-bottomed, perfectly circular body of water that looks more pond than pool, complete with filtering system, loaded with "locals" from a 25+ mile radius on any give day that temps rise above 80 degrees.

Afton SP was a local favorite hiking spot of ours for years. An east day-trip from our house in Roseville, an even easier trip from Wrenwood. I'd pack baggies granola and mixed nuts, baggies of dog treats, Bob would fill water bottles, line the Jeep with dog blankets, make sure we had all other dog stuff—leashes, water bowls, poop bags. He might pack his camera and a lens or two, but more often not—it was difficult to take photos with anxious dogs and an impatient wife in tow. That, and we never left early enough or stayed late enough for the really good light, the sweet light, as Bob called it. He got his best shots heading to the park on his own, on his time schedule; our outings were "scouting trips," he'd call them. Depending on the season, he'd scope the landscape for spring wildflowers, or fall colors, or locations that might provide a stunning backdrop for whatever it was that he was imagining. Afton has various topography in which to get lost (and well-placed maps along the way, to find yourself again)—thick, damp woods, vast, airy prairies, trails along the river—hours of hiking pleasure within a short drive from home.

I haven't been to either park since last year. When Bob died, for months, I was of the walking dead.  One day, a week after his death, awash in disbelief that he really, truly is dead? I forced myself to walk the trails of the parks. At the time, I thought I would make it a regular occurrence, that I'd force myself to embrace the life and loved that Bob and I once shared, but alas, it happened just that one time. You can't force healing, it has to happen on its own time, its own terms. I didn't write much about those hike, I barely recall them (I only have his blog to tell me that it happened, and after reading that entry, I still only "kind of" remember, in flashes). I don't know if I took one of the dogs along or not—I might have taken Rocco, but no empirical data exists to prove this. I didn't have much to say or think while on auto-pilot, I didn't know the language of my new world yet. Numbed and horrified by the culmination of the events of the year and a half, all I knew was: I have to start over. No wait—I get to reinvent. That coveted "do over" that's titillating to anyone but the person who has to do over.

The only intent of that walk, nearly a year ago, was to try and anchor myself to something familiar, something beloved, something close, something that would stir up memories other than cancer, suffering, hospitals, hospice, death. But even our precious parks were a cold, alien land, a year ago. As I walked a year ago, I was not comforted. I was abandoned (by everyone—especially Bob—after all the "miracles" he had survived, he wasn't supposed to die), failed (I had failed to save my beautiful husband, his doctors failed in giving us choices), bewildered, suspended in midair, walking just to walk, clawing for a translation in the leaves, a message from the sky, desperate for anything from the natural world that used to speak to Bob, that now surrounded me, to gently convey that Bob is really, truly gone and my life—our lives—as I knew it, gone, but all will be okay. But nobody was talking. The landscape was familiar yet foreign. An abandoned barn, a stand of birches, a lone oak tree that I knew would appear on the hill up around the corner. Familiar. Mocking. Or maybe not even mocking. Maybe just there, offering no anchor. That day, nearly a year ago, I didn't get the message. That day, and endless to follow, all was simply gone.

But along the way, in an order that I didn't ordain, with events I didn't plan, much less expect (because if I had any say in this journey, things would be much more predictable, it wouldn't continue to be this hard), days and weeks, and months and now going on almost a year later, we received and continue to receive, in no particular order or discernible pattern: owls and music and random coins—and people, and messages of patience etched in rocks, and connections and reconnections to more people, places and things that would eventually, painstakingly anchor me, and at the same time, set me free. Don't ask me to explain that one. . . at once, gently pulled back to earth, where my life lessons continue to unfold, sometimes baffling, sometimes in glaring clarity, but shattered wide open at the same time . . .  Always here for the open hearted. Patience. . . but I am not patient by nature. I don't like cryptic language. I don't want to have to work so hard. I worked so hard for a year and a half, continue to work so hard . . . but guess what? I don't have a choice. Not if I want to move through and with . . .

Thankfully, neither park is too far from our house, Lake Elmo maybe a 10 minute drive, Afton a little farther, but not enough time for Rocco to succumb to vomiting (though to get to Afton from our house means taking the windy, twisty, up and down, back and forth backroads, which certainly can't help my neurotic dog's delicate stomach). He was already trembling when I walked him out to the Jeep this morning, such a nervous mess, he tried to jump into the back before I had the tailgate up. CLUNK! Kissed the back door HARD. Thankfully, I had him clipped to his leash, or he would have bailed on me for sure. But as soon as we got to the park, {{poof!}} he transformed into a bloodhound the second he leapt from the confines of his torture chamber, nose to the ground, nearly tearing my arm from the socket as he bolted down the trail, only to be stopped quick by the length of the retractable leash and my anticipatory full-body bracing.

Lake Elmo and Afton parks are in-between seasons, both melting, sloppy hot messes. Trees and ground bleed themselves into the snow and trails, staining the ice with melting rust-colored ribbons that swirl and spread into a mix of sloshy mud on the outside, slick-as-snot ice with an ankle-deep layer of chilled water on the inside. This is time of year when most avoid the parks, much less clomp around in it, till things melt and dry up more and hiking/biking/horseback riding is much easier. Between mud that powerfully suctioned to my shoes, low-lying icy puddles that offer no way around them but through them, snow compacted to icy slabs that offered no traction whatsoever and Rocco straining the length of the leash, I thought for sure at some point I will face-plant into the hillside. I finally broke the parks' rules and unclipped Rocco from his leash, to lessen the chance that he would be responsible for dragging me down on Nature's Obstacle Course. But the sun was brilliant and far reaching and magnetic, a day that Bob and I, in our former life, would have welcomed the pull and packed up dogs and selves and headed out, mud be damned, to have a state park almost all to ourselves, before the desirable season set it.

I slopped through cold mud puddles up to my ankles, filled my shoes and soaked my socks with icy wetness, to feel alive. I let naked, bony tree branches comb my hair and scratch at my face, to feel alive. I overdressed so the sun could overheat me, bake me and make me sweat, make me feel alive. I turned off the ringer on my phone (but kept it on my person, should I wander too far and lose myself completely, and need to call for a search-&-rescue party), to feel alive. I touched crispy, crinkly, crepe-papery rusty oak leaves still clinging to low hanging branches, to feel alive. I slipped and tripped along treacherous trails, arms flailing, hands grabbing, just to feel alive. I traipsed up slippery slopes to examine the lichen-crusted guts of old foundations of what—an old farm house? A barn? to feel the spirits of the souls who lived above these foundations. To feel alive.

Hiking along the prairie loop at Afton State park, I trudged up a hill where I knew a bench would be waiting at the top,. The sun was much more intense than I had anticipated, soaking me in late-winter warmth, intensified by the open prairie with nothing in the way to impede its mission. Even Rocco, by this point, was slowing down, panting deeper. The bench I was looking for was one that Bob and I often stopped at to take a break, take in the view, give the dogs some water, catch our breath. As we rounded the top of the hill, I spied the bench, anchored to the place it has been for years. I suddenly recalled a memory of hiking in Afton with Bob and the dogs, Gaia and Liddy. We had stopped at this bench for a water break, to catch our collective breath. As we stood on the top of the world that overlooked the expansive St. Croix river valley, we spotted a lone hiker down at the bottom of the hill that we had just scaled. Normally, our dogs wouldn't pay too much attention to any hiker, unless there was another dog in the bunch. Today, Gaia stood still, facing the direction of the hiker, watching him intently. As as he crested the hilltop, I immediately thought, odd, he's wearing jeans, flimsy loafers and a sweater. This park bench was situated deep within the park, no easy stroll to get to it. And it had to be well into the 70s; we had already peeled off light jackets and tied them around our waist. At the same time, a deep, rumbling growl rolled through Gaia's throat, tumbling out as several deep, muffled woofs, as close as she ever came to barking. The man glanced our way, said a quick hello and quickened his pace, rounding the bend and disappearing over the next hill. "That man is a serial killer," I announced as soon as he was out of sight. Bob laughed at me. "Why would you think that?"

"Are you kidding? Did you see what he had on—who wears jeans and slippers to hike way out here? And you saw Gaia's reaction—she's never barked at anyone in her whole life! Yup, serial killer. I wonder where he dumped the body . . ." Bob joined in, concocting an elaborate story about this man's existence. . . . standing on the hill today, I am at once, awash in amusement and heavy with sadness, recalling this and endless other memories shared with Bob in this setting . . .

Today, I noticed a curious little bouquet of flowers hanging off the back of the bench, which faced Afton Alps (and yes, crazy skiers were still out today, even though temps had to have reached above 60! What could the snow possibly be like, other than treacherous, on a day like today!). I wondered who left the flowers, what could they possibly be for. The memory of a loved one who also loved this scenic, restful point? Someone else searching? I saw a card attached to the flowers, tucked between the dried, ribboned stalks and the bench. I slid it out and read this message: "Each day, well lived, makes yesterday a dream of happiness & each tomorrow a vision of hope. Look, therefore, to this one day, for it alone is life." (Sanskrit poem) Love, Susan & Kim

A year ago, Bob was dead. I was dead. The world as I knew it ceased to exist. I walked these trails bewildered and alone. At the time, I needed to be bewildered and alone. A necessary step, among hundreds and thousands of steps, to today, among hundreds and thousands more, to tomorrow and beyond. But all that matters, really, is today. Bob is still dead, a part of me still feels dead, my world is not the same, will never the be same. But a part of me, today, felt like the uncertain icy-watery trail beneath my feet, with oak trees pressed into its surface, as though their very energy were melting through, full of potential, full of life as much as death. Today, a little bit of me felt Bob walking with me. When he and I walked these paths, I often walked ahead, because Liddy always had to be the lead dog. Every now and then, I'd turn to talk to him, to hear something he said to me, to share a sight, a thought. Today, I felt I could do that again, to stop, turn around and talk to him, point out something that caught my eye, share a though. I did that, a lot today. A little bit of me felt alive. This one day—today—I am alive.


I am heeding a message sent to me from the most beautiful of messengers: To find peace and calm and enjoy the scenery again. To get outside and breathe again. But just in case anyone is thinking that {{{poof!}}} this suddenly happened, that suddenly my life is "back on track," and I'm "all better!", lemme tell you, that's not the case. Far from it. I still have many more steps to take, many more messages to find, many more memories to unearth.


Every step of the journey has its place, its purpose, its mission . . . the protective, mindless, almost forgotten ones, as well as the sloppy, muddy, icy, precarious ones . . .